


The Astronomer's Plight

by shotgunsinlace



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Astronomy, Dancing, Dancing Lessons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Post-Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, Scientific Revolution of the Wizarding World, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:26:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgunsinlace/pseuds/shotgunsinlace
Summary: Draco Malfoy has lost enough throughout his life, and as Scorpius' seventh year at Hogwarts comes looming ever closer, all he can do is turn to the stars for help. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Scorpius and Albus try their damnest to give him as many headaches as humanly possible before graduation arrives. All the while, Auror Potter continues to insist that showing up at the Manor past appropriate hours with a bottle of Firewhiskey is favorable to their health. Supposedly.





	1. 00.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in the Potter fandom for the better part of 15 years and now's the first time I ever even attempt at writing fic for it. Very sad for me. So, read The Cursed Child, and when NaNoWrimo came around last November I decided to write this thingy. Mostly Malfoy-centric, because I love the dynamic between Draco and Scorpius like no other. 
> 
> Unbeta'd despite having been sitting in my folder for five-ish months. Many apologies, folks. Also, rating will most likely go up nearing the end. Probably. Very likely.

“Now, turn your telescope fifteen degrees to the left and tell me which stars you see.”

“Etamin, Grumium, Alwaid, and, um… Vega?” A large hand comes down on Draco’s shoulder and gently nudges him aside.

“Thuban,” Lucius corrects after a few short seconds of deliberation, in which Draco swears he’s moved the telescope but says nothing about it. His father has always been one for mischievous conduct when the mood strikes. Mother insists that’s where he gets it from.

Handing the telescope back, he says: “Which is a part of…?”

“The Draco constellation!” Draco answers with a smile of his own, the bubble of joy that comes every time he sees himself upon the heavens building to an incredible size.

“Very good.”

The endless expanse of Wiltshire’s hills do little to drown out the roiling expanse of the night sky above head, where millions of stars illuminate the otherwise dark fields. Tall summer grass tickles the tips of Draco’s fingers, swallowing all of him when he sits on a patch untouched by the afternoon rain. The scent of earth is strong, almost as strong as the smell of sweat as it gathers beneath his robes.

It’s a hot night in late July, but Draco would much rather be out here than in the cool comfort of home. Here he can spend time with Father and talk about things they both enjoy, like Chocolate Frogs and Mother’s homemade lemon tart, the ocean, and the stars.

Lucius joins him on the ground, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He looks older than the last time Draco saw him just two weeks ago, but he can’t tell why why. He looks tired, as if the peacocks were keeping him up at night with their annoying shrieking.

“Strange, isn’t it? How we’re constantly moving, yet the skies remain unchanged,” he says, tucking loose strands of long hair behind his ear.

Draco folds his legs underneath himself and looks up, wishing he had brought juice with them. The sudden sadness in his father’s voice has made his throat dry. “There has to be a reason for that,” Draco offers, rubbing his thumb against the worn leather of his shoes. There’s a new pair by his bedroom door, but he prefers the ones on his feet. They may be old, and too tight, but they’re comfortable.

“I’m sure there must be a theory or two.” Lucius nods his head, then falls back with a sigh.

Alarmed, Draco scoots over, wide-eyed. “Dad?”

“Your mother told me about Hogwarts.”

“What of it?”

“I thought we agreed on Durmstrang.”

Finding a blade of grass near him fascinating, Draco decides to fiddle with it instead of looking down at Lucius. He feels his cheeks warm with a mix of horror and embarrassment, having thought that conversation to have been private.

Mother always understood; she always tries to make things a little bit easier for him. Right now all he feels is anger at having that trust betrayed.

“I don’t want to be far from home,” Draco says with a sniff. “During holidays, I want to be able to Floo in. Even Beauxbatons would be better. I know French, and I know France a lot better than I know any of Scandinavia.”

That, among other things. He has heard conversations between Father and his colleagues, and whatever it is they want him to learn can be just as well taught in Hogwarts. Most of the Malfoy line has attended the school, and he doesn’t understand why that should change with him.

“Uncle Severus will be there, too,” he continues, now clutching the hem of Lucius’ robes. He’s terrified that his parents will force him away from the only place he’s ever called home, because Narcissa’s opinion will never be enough to dissuade his father. “He’ll make sure I won’t get into any trouble.”

“Severus will make sure you get detention for trouble you didn’t start,” Lucius says, but the faintest hint of humor has Draco’s shoulders easing. “Are you certain you want to deal with that throughout your academic career?”

Draco nods without giving it more thought, even if the word _detention_ sets a chill to his bones. It’s a horror his mother has mentioned in passing, one he hopes he will never come to face to face with when school starts. As terrifying as it all sounds, he figures much worse things could happen. 

He could be _expelled_ , forced to go to Durmstrang for not handing in his work on time.

“Wherever you go,” Lucius says, interrupting the frantic thoughts, “you will do well.”

A gust of wind draws Draco’s attention away from the conversation and back to the sky. He can barely see anything else, the darkness around them having settled hours ago. He sways with the grass and breathes in the muggy air, letting it settle deep within his lungs.

Strands of hair stick to the corner of his mouth, and he remembers Lucius mentioning he needed to get his hair trimmed.

Thunder rumbles in the distance despite the absence of clouds, and he hopes it rains. The pitter-patter of raindrops against his window helps him sleep.

“It was your mother who chose your name. When she requested the honor, I feared she would name you after a flower.”

Curious as to what inspired the statement, Draco turns to him with a frown. “I can’t see myself as anyone other than Draco,” he says.

“A very good name.”

“Is something wrong?”

Lucius finally looks at him, eyes dark in the lack of light. He shakes his head. “Go to Hogwarts if you wish. You’ve still got three years to think about it.”

Three years is a lifetime away, so Draco pushes all thoughts of the future into the furthest parts of his mind. He need not worry about that yet. For now, he has maths to learn and potion ingredients to memorize. The rest can wait.

Instead, he imagines the Dragon swimming through the black sky, twirling around the Dog and the Twins, the Crab, the Bears, and the Archer. It’s the Dragon who can do anything, see everything, go everywhere.

His mother did choose a good name. The greatest name.

“It’s going to rain.”

Draco nods his head. “Let’s go home, dad.”


	2. 01.

The list of moronic actions and unfortunate consequences is quite long once Draco looks back on his life. From the inconsequential to the barbaric, they like to materialize in his memory from time to time. 

At least he has never set the manor’s kitchen on fire. He considered it once, during the occupation, but thought better of it when he realized how much of a strain it would have placed on his mother’s weary shoulders.

However that might have gone would have paled in comparison to the absolute devastation currently before him.

Centuries old masonry is now but rubble littering every surface of the usually pristine kitchen, a gaping hole decorating the east wall facing the gardens. Wooden counters are splintered, layers of polished tops curled into themselves like dried leaves. Bottles, cauldrons, silverware, and fine china are strew over the charred floors. 

Small flames flicker out of the corner of his eye and Draco extinguishes them with a quickly muttered _aguamenti_ , otherwise stunned silent by the level of destruction. 

What used to be a table is nothing but a heap of wood he suspects might have been attempted to be transfigured into some sort of cabinet.

Two heads pop up amidst the chaos, nearly unidentifiable by the amount of soot covering both.

Draco’s first instinct is to demand an explanation, the second one to curse something, but after three deep breaths he settles for a simple question: “Are you two alright?” Several rigorous nods later, he sighs. “Good.” A beat, then, “What in Merlin’s name were you two _thinking?_ ” The words come out louder than he intends, making both boys flinch.

“We were hungry!” Scorpius says, looking sheepish enough to garner sympathy. “You were busy and I thought sandwiches would be easy enough to make.”

“I see calling for Beems would have been a step too difficult for you,” Draco says, searching but failing to spot their aging house elf. Instead, he focuses on the dark mess intent on looking at anything but him. “Safe to assume you had everything to do with this, Potter.”

Albus Potter’s already abnormally large eyes grow wider. “No, sir. It was a joint effort.”

Draco feels something twitch. Not only must the child be a mirror image of his father, he’s inherited that rotten attitude of his. A much younger Draco would have been somewhat charmed by it, but now all it inspires in him is a headache. He gets enough sass from his own kid as is.

“A joint effort it began and a joint effort it will end.” He toes away an herb bottle, frowning when he recognizes the intricate design along the top. His mother favored it for reasons he never truly understood, and seeing it so carelessly rolling about ignites a quiet sense of rage. “I expect this kitchen to be returned to normal before dinner,” he says icilly. “Trust that your father will hear about this.”

Albus has the audacity to look annoyed rather than apprehensive, a sharp contrast to Draco’s own reaction at the sound of those words. Then again, the Potters are lax when it comes to disciplining their offspring, as they are with everything else.

_You’re one to talk,_ he tells himself, eyeing a fumbling Scorpius as he tries to figure out where to even begin. 

Lucius would have done worse for less, but Draco decided a long time ago that he would never become his father.

He plucks the bottle from the floor and sets it on the single shelf that survived the ordeal, hoping that it will pull through whatever storm strikes Malfoy Manor next.

For a brief moment he feels a pang of regret at allowing Albus access to their home, but it soon fades into nothing but mild displeasure when Scorpius’ laughter rings loud and clear along the depressingly cold hallways. 

Too long has this been a place of grief and remorse, each corner haunted by memories both bitter and sweet.

Checking his pocket watch and seeing it tick just past noon, Draco makes for the Floo.

**__________________________**

“What the bloody hell were you thinking?” the booming voice is muffled by the door separating the parlor and the den, but only barely. “This isn’t the Burrow, Albus. This isn’t home.” A moment’s silence. “ _You blew a hole through Malfoy Manor!_ ”

It takes a considerable amount of effort for Draco not to roll his eyes. Trust Potter to over-exaggerate even the smallest of things.

There are a few quiet seconds that suggest indoor voices are being used, but the occasional outburst of fragmented conversation alerts him to the difficulty both men are having to remain collected. Albus yells back as often as Potter does, scathing words bouncing with a ferocity Draco hasn’t witnessed in years.

He’s beginning to think that summoning Potter at the office might have been a terrible idea after all.

“It’s getting worse,” Scorpius mumbles from his spot on the chair, his tea ignored on the table next to him. He keeps his eyes set on the dormant fireplace, chin resting on his knees in a subtle act of defiance.

Draco doesn’t need to ask what he means. The Prophet has gone above and beyond detailing _The Chosen One’s Wrathful Dilemmas_ on and off over the years. It’s common knowledge that the reason Auror Potter is good at his job is because he hexes first and asks questions later, a behavioral trait severely looked down on by the Ministry, but of course the insufferable man doesn’t so much as get a swat on the hand. All because he’s Harry sodding Potter.

But another, far more reliable source informs Draco of things he doesn’t quite care for but listens to anyway. Scorpius and his talkative nature lend for long hours at the dinner table, Draco nodding along to topics that range from Quidditch, to Hogwarts, to the Potters. So much so, that the first persons to know of the divorce outside of the immediate family had been the Malfoys. Scorpius had let it slip one night, then had promptly made Draco swear not to tell another soul.

He had kept a close eye on the papers since then, but Potter had done an admirable job at keeping off the front page.

Gaudy headlines became rather bleak topics over tea while Scorpius spoke of how Albus preferred neither his mother or father but spent his holidays with the eldest sibling, romancing dragons in Romania. An already rebellious soul becoming reckless, careless, and Draco cannot at all blame him. He does not appreciate his son being wrangled into potentially dangerous situations, however; once had been enough.

“I don’t know what to do,” Scorpius says.

“Nothing,” Draco is quick to reply. “It isn’t our business.”

“It certainly is _mine_.”

“Scorpius.” He may be lenient to a fault, but he will not tolerate disrespect.

“Albus is my friend.” Scorpius’ words are cool and flat, not devoid of emotion, but a perfect mask of composure that would have done his grandfather proud. “Aside from you, he’s all that I have.” Looking sullen, he takes in a deep breath after deliberating whether or not he should say what’s on his mind. “Harry means well, I know he does, but I don’t think he knows how to channel his emotions. Sort of like you when mum died.”

Jaw clenched, Draco levels Scorpius with a look he knows sets most people to stammering, but Scorpius doesn’t fear him. It’s moments like these when he simultaneously loves and hates the naked honesty which with his son speaks, uncaring of antiquated rituals and pureblood etiquette. Where Draco would have cowered at the mere idea of offending his father, Scorpius speaks freely and bravely, knowing that Draco will try his damndest to understand.

He can also wield his words as a weapon if he so chose to, a trait Draco wholeheartedly appreciates. It’s nice knowing he and Scorpius have a habit or two in common.

“You are out of line,” he says, the very breath of him sharp with warning.

Scorpius shuts his mouth, and with a nod agrees with him. He sits up properly, feet firmly on the ground, and reaches for his tea.

The sound of voices have subsided, but Draco knows better. Potter should have cast a silencing spell on the room before he even began his rant.

“Can I say one more thing?”

“You’ll still say it even if I say no.”

Scorpius’ smile is genuine but muted. It was the same smile Astoria gave when she knew she would get her way without having to try very hard.

“I’m grateful you listened,” he says, not quite as enigmatically as he hopes to sound.

Remarkable how very easy it is to destroy Draco’s defenses, a weakness only ever exposed to Scorpius and his cunning silver eyes. Sometimes he feels the need to apologize for passing on his genetics, wondering how much easier life would be for Scorpius if he didn’t look so much like him. 

Perhaps because he’s unable to be impartial towards his own son, Draco firmly believes Scorpius deserves the authentic happiness he never felt. He deserves friends that will make him shine, help him climb mountains, and vice versa. The world doesn’t deserve his son, but his son deserves the world.

The cold that always tags along with the thought settles in the base of his spine, of how close he had come to losing him. How differently it would have all panned out had Draco refused to listen to him on grounds of befriending Potter’s son. Bile burns his throat when acknowledging how close he had come, how it had taken the suggestion of death to push him to open up in ways that terrified him.

No parent deserves to lose a child; although, he thinks with a touch of disdain, some do. He doesn’t want to recount the times he considered removing himself from the equation as a teenager because it felt like his parents didn’t care enough, not about him. There was always something bigger, something far more important, something worth losing their souls over, something worth Marking himself for.

Had only someone listened. Truly listened.

And there it is, that devious glint in Scorpius’ eye that tells he has succeeded in making Draco reach the conclusion he had hoped for without much effort.

The oak doors open with a heavy creak before Draco can say another word, welcoming two fuming Potters into the small space of the den. They both look surprisingly put together after the shouting match, making Draco wonder just how common an occurrence this is.

For all of their physical similarities, there’s a bewildering difference in the way they each carry themselves. Partly, Draco thinks, because of their clothing. While Albus favors those dreaded Muggle jumpers and tattered jeans, Potter dones his Auror robes with a blinding sense of authority. It’s a handsome look. It’s also amusing, considering Albus has a good five inches on his father.

“Any expenses towards the restoration will be covered,” Potter says, rather reluctantly.

Draco frowns at him, fearing he’s finally gone mental. “Rest assured, Auror Potter, that the last thing on my mind are restoration expenses. What I would like is some assurance that your son won’t succeed where you so blatantly failed. I rather like my house in one solid piece.”

Potter regards him with a cool look. “Fine. No more explosions,” he says by way of promise, mostly to Albus.

Draco watches him strut across the floor towards the Floo, and he’s yet again appalled by the disgraceful lack of manners. It’s a wonder the man is ever invited to Ministry functions, lightning scar or not. 

Albus dawdles behind him, hands so deep in his pockets he resembles a beggar rather than the promising young wizard he is. Draco need not look over the shoulder to see the pleading look on his own son’s face, and makes his decision just as Potter is reaching into the marble vase.

“I hope to see you again next Wednesday,” he says, not exactly a question and stiffer than he intends, but it’s never an easy task to invite a Potter into his safe space.

It’s worth seeing the befuddled look on Potter’s face, and it makes Draco wonder just how often he’s thrown off by harmless comments. He recovers quickly. “You threaten with Azkaban and now you’re inviting him over for tea?”

Draco waves him off. “I’ve ordered this year’s study guides for NEWTs and I thought Albus might benefit from them just as much as Scorpius.”

“There’s no such thing as study guides,” Potter says with a healthy amount of skepticism. “I’m sure there’s not.” He looks entirely unsure.

“You simply didn’t know where to look.” _At Flourish and Blotts, second floor,_ Draco wants to say, considering they receive an updated volume yearly, but he lets Potter stew in his mistrust as he usually does.

Potter spares Albus a passing glance that leaves a sour taste in Draco’s tongue. Perhaps they should have a word, despite Draco’s deep-rooted belief that it is not his place to comment on other families’ issues.

“And you’re welcome to join me for tea if you feel like being civil for five minutes,” he adds, his mouth twisting into a smirk he knows is unpleasant.

Damn Potter and his sole purpose to devolve Draco into schoolboy antics.

“I’ll pass,” is all he says before stepping into the Floo and disappearing in a burst of crackling green flames back to the Ministry.

Albus lingers for a couple of moments, reaching into the antique vase before hesitating. He eventually looks up at Draco with an unreadable expression, a lopsided mock of a smile bringing back some of his youthful vigor, but not entirely.

“Thanks,” he says, but Draco is already exiting the den, giving him and Scorpius a moment to themselves.


	3. 02.

Earth, sun, moon.

_Relative distances, gravitational pulls, chemical imbalances, space-time._

Rubbish.

Draco glares at the book in front of him, the information as good as useless when none of it makes any bloody sense.

_Newton’s Laws, Theory of Relativity, the Observable Universe._

A wedge of amusement is what makes him turn page after page, inspecting diagrams with a critical eye and charts with an airy sense of disbelief. 

That Muggles would think themselves clever enough to claim to have discovered these so called _scientific truths_ is quite charming, in a pitiful sort of way. Muggles can’t even tell the difference between a hippogriff and a griffyn were one to pounce in front of them, let alone what stars of distant galaxies are made of.

Regardless, there is some use to their otherwise pointless raving. Much like Divination, there are small shreds of truth Draco can extrapolate on and utilize to his advantage. Halley’s Comet, for example, led him to accept that certain celestial bodies do orbit far more massive ones despite large gaps in time. It’s a fact he learned in second year Astronomy, but it’s the Muggles’ uncanny accuracy at predicting these events that brought him to the book at hand.

He thought he would be able to make sense of Muggle science, that it would be logical and sound, but in the end all he got were mad ramblings and claims not even the greatest minds in the wizarding world would take seriously.

Annoyed at himself for even entertaining the idea, Draco shuts the book and pushes it aside, burying it beneath unused parchments.

With a mild sigh, he rolls out his oldest of celestial charts and lays it side by side with the latest edition he’s recently purchased. The changes fail to surprise him, the glossy finish adding a handsome shine to stars absent from its decaying counterpart. There are far more constellations, some finally named and others renamed, and he subconsciously searches for his namesake in the Northern Sky.

His search is interrupted when the door to his study opens without announcement, a disgruntled Scorpius dragging his feet with as much grace as a troll. Draco swallows a chastising remark when he notices the books he’s carrying, sympathy pushing away whatever hint of bemusement he briefly felt.

Scorpius deposits his books on the table by the high-backed armchair and lets himself fall into it with a dramatic gust of breath, robes awkwardly spilling around him as he does so. He covers his eyes with his forearm, and Draco wonders if this is what he looked like all those years ago in the Slytherin common room with the threat of exams looming over his head, among other things.

“Did the thought of failing your NEWTs ever cross your mind?” Scorpius asks, far more despondent than Draco’s ever heard him. “Or did you always believe you’d score an Outstanding in all of them?”

Turning back to his charts, Draco redirects his search for the comet that continues to elude him. “No,” he answers offhandedly. “I was only sure of Potions. For everything else I expected an Exceeds Expectations, at the least.”

“Of course you did.”

“You’ll do fine,” Draco adds, and he believes it. His son may not possess the social fluency Draco does, but there’s something to be said about his academic brilliance. He has the utmost faith that Scorpius will pass his exams with scores good enough to brag about for a lifetime.

Now, if only he knew what he’d do with those scores.

The subject of graduation has been dutifully avoided since the end of sixth year, when Scorpius became plagued with a bout of moodiness that left Draco with a surplus of worry. Sixteen is never an easy age, but Draco had understood the strain of an uncertain future and a troubled past. But as it is, with only one year left to collect favors owed and ascertain his son’s place in the world, Draco needs to know.

“What’s an astronomer’s equivalent to the Great Work?”

“An answer to the Universe, I suppose,” he says, aware of the keen stare Scorpius sets on him.

Hand outstretched above him, as if to rearrange the details of the ceiling above head, Scorpius snaps his finger. “A single equation that explains all of the cosmos.” It’s less a question and more a statement, the likes of which is similar to a passage in the Muggle book he’s just set aside. “Sounds impossible to achieve.”

Draco meets his eyes only briefly, then moves to gather his notes. “Nicolas Flamel thought his work to be impossible. That didn’t prevent him from achieving what he did.”

“Alchemy and astronomy are two very different things.”

“Not when inspecting their base elements,” Draco says, rolling the charts back up and slipping them into their protective casings. “Both deal with the fundamental principles of life and chaos, often overlapping when we consider the grander scheme of things.”

“Purely from a philosophical point of view,” Scorpius amends. He shifts until he’s comfortable enough to prop his text book open over his lap, leafing through pages with a contemplative hum. “Alchemy we can control, astronomy we cannot. Alchemy cannot defeat death, it can only cheat it for so long. The Universe doesn’t care about the concept of death.” With a small, far too knowing smile, he turns to Draco. “That’s why alchemy is far more prevalent within wizardkind despite its absence in early education, while astronomy is the complete opposite.”

“Because we can control change.”

“Because we’re scared of what we can’t control.”

Draco smiles at the astrarium on his desk, at the silver gears and clocks mounted on a pristine gold surface. He watches the hands tick and planets spin, constellations come to life and slither across polished spheres.

The ghost of a memory stirs in the back of his mind, that of a more solemn voice uttering proverbs Draco would turn his back to. He wonders how it would have been if Scorpius would have mentored under Hogwarts’ previous Headmaster.

Impossible, he thinks. It’s an uphill battle as is to understand what goes on in his son’s head.

“I’m curious,” Draco says, finally sitting behind his desk, “as to what it is you’re trying to get at.”

Scorpius shrugs. “I remember you only ever studying alchemy, but then you decided to focus on astronomy instead.”

Stretching out his legs, Draco crosses them at his ankles. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“Not really.”

They lapse into silence.

Beems brings them a tray of tea and sandwiches during lunch before vanishing to tend to the kitchen, and Draco attempts to entertain himself by absently leafing through The Quibbler. His mind is now far too preoccupied with thoughts provoked by Scorpius’ discreet probing.

Far too clever for his age, Scorpius has a distinct way of warping the meaning of his words just for the sake of it. It’s all a game to him, a rather innocent one, Draco is all too relieved to realize, but there is something wrong with the atmosphere. He can sense the hesitation, a trickle of trepidation.

“Do you believe in romance?”

Ten years of etiquette training is the only thing that keeps Draco from spilling tea all over his desk at the question. The only answer he gives is a raise of his eyebrows.

“I’m being honest,” Scorpius says, the casualness of his tone forced. “Please don't laugh.”

“Fancy yourself in love? Is that it?” he deflects, taking the scent of dried flowers deep into his lungs. It’s almost enough to sooth him.

“No.” And that’s a lie if Draco has ever heard one.

“Then why the question?” he says, choosing instead to be direct rather than dance around a difficult subject.

“I’m just curious. I know you loved mum, but…” Scorpius trails off, the sound of changing pages somehow able to broadcast his discomfort.

“But?”

“I,” he starts, breathes deep, and tries again. “I don’t know. It’s silly and I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Draco considers him for a long moment, both troubled and vaguely annoyed by the message Scorpius is so blatantly failing to conceal. “I loved your mother.”

“But did you always?” The question comes sudden, like he would have changed his mind about asking had he dallied a second more. It surprises Draco, but he takes it in stride. “Did you wake up one day and thought ‘oh, this is the person I want to spend the rest of my life with’?”

The hint of disbelief hurts far more than Draco would like to admit. That Scorpius would even think him a liar when it comes to his family licks like a flame along his fingertips, igniting a ferocious anger Draco quickly clamps down on.

Or maybe, unfairly, that’s not entirely the reason why the accusation burns bright hot. Part of him avidly wishes to deny the conclusion he’s come to, but nearly seven years of having to stand witness to it only serves to cement his suspicions.

Scorpius does believe himself to be in love, and it is the _who_ that stirs blind and unadulterated rage coursing through every vein in his being. The truth of it lies heavy in his mind, suffocating in his chest, and Draco can do nothing but swallow the overwhelming ire that thrashes in his stomach whenever the thought pays an unwanted visit.

As ugly as it is shameful, Draco wishes with every fiber of his miserable existence that he wasn’t as jealous as he is.

“For the longest time I thought I would never grow to even care for her,” he retorts scathingly, stomach lurching violently under the shocked look on his son’s face.

The regret is immediate, the years of indoctrination, of learning how to not let emotions twist his words coming appallingly short. Here he is again, hating that the mere suggestion of a name can destroy the carefully constructed veneer he’s worked so hard on, making him petty.

Recognizing how hurtful the words were, he tries and fails to apologize, because despite them, it is only but the truth.

Draco turns his eyes back to the astrarium, putting down his tea with enough force to slosh it over his hands, burning skin. He closes his eyes and counts downwards from twenty, taking deep breaths and stilling the monster that so savagely thrashes in his chest.

Scorpius doesn’t speak. Neither does for the longest time, the silence only broken by the ticking clocks. 

With a pang of grief, Draco can see Astoria pursing her lips at him in disapproval. Arms crossed over her chest, hazelnut hair falling elegantly over slender shoulders. He can almost hear her tut.

In the end, all he has are words worthless in their simplicity and he hates it. Hates that he is still terrible at communication, at being completely transparent with himself and the one person that matters.

“Let’s take a walk,” Draco says, leaving no room for argument.

**__________________________**

The summer heat is near unbearable, adding to Draco’s many regrets. Even in the lightest of robes the fabric merely traps in heat like a furnace, souring his mood all the more. Sweat gathers in the most unpleasant of places, making him sticky and generally displeased.

Beside him, Scorpius looks less miserable in a simple shirt, as pensive as he seems.

The silence between them is charged and awkward, namely due to the rarity of an emotional outburst from Draco. Years of building character washed away in a matter of seconds. Although he figures pretending to act like a slightly less horrid version of Lucius doesn’t quite cut it. To think he’d have it together by now, found a balance that is undoubtedly Draco but more grown up.

A single peacock feather lays abandoned beside the stone path. Scorpius picks it up.

“I don’t want to marry someone I don’t love,” he says, carefully stroking the bright wisps of colors.

“You won’t have to,” Draco offers, a quiet promise he can keep. “The Manor will be yours regardless of what you choose, if you marry well or not.”

“But you did love her.”

Draco nods his head. They don’t often speak of Astoria and he wishes they could stop, but Scorpius is not one to be easily swayed.

“We grew to love each other,” he says softly, as if to not scare the flowers that bring life to the gardens. “I won’t pretend that it was easy or quick, that all it took was a fleeting glance and a heartfelt conversation.”

“You must have been a menace.”

Draco narrows his eyes, but the effect of the glare is lost when his own mouth twitches into an almost smirk. “I was nineteen when we announced our betrothal. I thought I was too young to marry.”

That, and a slew of other reasons he would rather not recount. Wounds of war had not begun to heal, the trials had just recently come to an end, and Draco had been young and frightened and tired. He was also alone despite the constant presence of his parents.

“There was someone else,” Scorpius adds, quiet enough to be missed. “Before mum.”

“Not all of us are fortunate enough to keep our first loves,” he says wryly, an attempt at humor, but it only serves to make Scorpius smile sadly.

Draco stops before a rose bush, gently reaching out to touch the bright red petals. The words he wants to say lodge in his throat, that same monster from before preventing him from even muttering a blessing he selfishly does not want to give.

“Yes, I do believe in romance,” Draco finally answers, reliving warm memories. “However different it may be from love.”

Astoria had held his hand when no one else would look at him. She had spoken kind words, rested her head on his shoulder, kissed his cheek on cold days, and whispered that it would all be alright when nights became too disquieting. She was a brilliant witch with a heart kind enough to sit by Draco Malfoy.

She deserved much more than a brooding teenager who would turn into an adult who feared the mere idea of a fire. She deserved more than a coward, someone who hadn’t agreed on marriage because his father thought it _barely acceptable_. Someone who didn't marry her for wealth and name.

“Any chance I'll be able to get their name out of you?”

“Only when Salazar Slytherin himself brings me the head of a slain titan.”

“So I do know them,” Scorpius says slyly, and Draco cannot believe how blindly he walked into that one.

“Have you decided on life post Hogwarts?” he offers as a subject change. There are some things better left buried and left for dead.

Scorpius places the peacock feather at the base of a stone statue, nestled among crawling ivy and amaranthus. He tweaks it time and again, brushing away overgrown greenery and stray flower petals. “Was it someone you met at Hogwarts?”

The boldness of the counter question fills Draco with more of that contradicting sense of pride versus insult. Unwilling to give his son the satisfaction, he continues down the stone path without another word.

Twenty years ago he and his mother had strolled down this very way, conversing about topics not that different from the ones he and Scorpius are discussing. Narcissa had been the only one to know about Draco’s inappropriate tendencies during his youth, had gotten whiff of his indiscretions by means that still escape him. She had been disappointed but accepting, knowing full well that Draco’s heart rested solely on the prestige of the Malfoy name.

His parents always knew he would rather bury himself alive than bring more disgrace upon them. They had played their cards well, and Draco cannot find it in him to resent them. In the end, it was only his fault for not voicing what he truly believed. His parents simply followed what they believed were the ultimate values.

Now Draco has vowed to be to his son what his parents failed to be to him.

“I’ve slept on it,” Scorpius finally says once catching up with him. “Done plenty of thinking.”

“And?”

“Did my research, all of it. Weighed the pros and the cons of each field I considered and came to the conclusion that this might really be what I want. _Really_ want.”

Fully aware of his antics, Draco keeps walking purely because he knows he isn’t going to like what he hears next.

“Keep in mind that mum would have supported me through and through.”

“You’re rambling.”

The sound of footsteps ceases behind him, and soon after Draco too comes to a stop. He scans the rolling hills belonging to the grounds, admiring the pristine blue of an arching sky that disappears into a nearby forest. For all of the bad memories, his home is still as lovely as it had been during his childhood.

Scorpius clears his throat. “With the Ministry’s initiative to incorporate innovative technologies, cross-fields seem to be the future of the wizarding world.”

“Absolutely not.” The words are out before he even thought them. “I will not allow you to throw away seven years of academia for _Muggle studies_.” The mere idea is too ridiculous to comprehend.

“It’s not Muggle studies,” Scorpius defends, growing flustered with each agitated breath. “I’m considering astronomy.”

“By perusing Muggle methods of investigation.”

“Yes, and? We’ve established that not all Muggles are completely mental.”

“No, because apparently all their madness has apparated into you.”

Scorpius crosses his arms over his chest in an impressive display of stubbornness, looking ten years younger and very much like his son. “Why are you against it? I thought we were past the whole ‘Muggles are inferior’ notion.”

“I could care less about that.”

“Then why?” Scorpius asks a little too forcefully, flinches at the look Draco gives him. “Wizardkind has the means and Muggles have the mechanics down to an art. Just take a moment to truly consider the advancements we could make as a race if we worked together. They’re this bloody close to sending man to Mars!”

“You believe this,” Draco says, perplexed. “How gullible can you be?”

Scorpius clenches his jaw. “Not gullible. I just believe that there are alternatives to the life that’s been ingrained into us as a society. We shouldn’t be afraid of technology, of scientific literacy. I won’t shy away because I don’t understand and I certainly won’t shy away just because you tell me to!”

A twig snaps somewhere behind them, the sound far too loud in the sudden silence that befalls the often serene air of the gardens. The air becomes stagnant, leaving a sour taste at the back of his tongue when Scorpius looks away from him, eyebrows pinched with an anger he truly deserves.

Try as he may to push it from his life, a lifetime of set ideals can so easily resurface against one’s wishes. Draco is a far cry from the boy who perceived Muggles to be below the dirt beneath his shoes, but there is a whisper of a voice inside of him that says Scorpius deserves so much better than this.

If not the Ministry, then Quidditch. He’s become quite the player over the years.

If not sports, then a sodding teaching position at Hogwarts. He could dabble all he wants in astronomy there, within the relative safety of the castle’s enchanted walls.

For the love of Circe, Draco would even prefer him as an Auror.

“Nothing I say will dissuade you, will it?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I respect your opinion, dad, and I know you want what’s best for me. But this is what’s best for me.” The defensiveness in his tone makes the words fall flat. “You shouldn’t have to name-drop to get me a job, especially since that’ll do the exact opposite. I don’t want to live the rest of my life as Draco Malfoy’s son, or even…” he trails off, the unfinished sentence lingering like a bad stench..

“A Muggle school, then.”

“There are a handful in Britain. There’s even one in Scotland.”

Draco hasn’t the slightest of how Muggle schools function, and it terrifies him. How long will Scorpius be gone for? How often will he see him? All unfair questions, all situations he would have to deal with regardless.

Swallowing all remnants of prejudice, fears, and disappointment, Draco turns towards the Manor with a resolute stride.

He doesn’t want to talk about it, and so he won’t. It seems like Scorpius has it all figured out anyway, and no longer needs his father’s input. Aware that this day would come he had tried his damnedest to ready himself for it, but nothing could have prepared him for the heartbreak.

For all that they fought for, for all that they lost, Draco will still remain alone with nothing but the inky black shadows that lurk in corners, and the snake that curls before his door in his most common of nightmares.


	4. 03.

Fingers glide over keys with deadly precision, the likes of which Draco has only ever executed during duels. Instinct moves them along the piano, recreating a tune he had once heard in his childhood. The aggressive tones had stuck with him, depicting with sound the turmoil that had been his everything back then.

It’s a song he favors when he’s stressed, proving to be therapeutic. Although right now what he needs is something to unwind the knot buried deep at the base of his neck, all the way to his shoulder blades. 

Along with a warm bath and scented oils to rid his nose of the smell of burning hair, the likes of which he’ll have to get trimmed immediately.

Draco bangs the keys a little harder.

All he wishes is for peace of mind, a quiet evening in without the impending doom of two teenagers hellbent on destroying his home hovering at the end of his robes.

Albus has developed an unsettling fascination for the Dark Objects Draco keeps locked behind charmed glass boxes throughout the house. For three weeks all he’s done is poke and prod and _exist_ in Draco’s presence, and that alone has been enough to set him on edge. A curious Potter is a dangerous one.

On the opposite side of the galleon, Scorpius barely directs a word at him. Punishment well deserved, Draco fears, allowing him the space to decide on how to proceed.

Together they’ve set fire to a guest bedroom in the east landing, the likes of which Draco did not care for, despite the curiosity of what the bloody hell the two of them were doing in there. He decides he’d rather not know and called it a day.

He owls Harry Potter about the incident, and not three hours later, one James Potter arrives at the manor’s doorstep.

The eldest of the three siblings is surprisingly temperate and polite, entertaining Draco with pristine manners and a natural talent for conversation. He must take from his mother’s side, Draco concludes, as he tries for a fourth time to assure him that all is well and all he had intended was to inform Potter that his son was still in one piece, were he to find out of the events via less appreciated means.

The third time the two get up to no good required a more extreme method of intervention.

Tensions between Albus and Scorpius have been obvious as of late, but being the temperamental children that they are, Draco had left them alone to sort it all out themselves. A mistake if he’s ever made one. He would have ignored the now familiar bangs and crashes had it not been for the nasty words they were throwing at each other.

From experience, Draco understood that no Potter is easy to deal with it. It wouldn’t be their first or last falling out, but it was the hurt in Albus’ words that gave him pause.

_“What would you know about love? It’s not like you’ve ever felt it.”_

Part of him wants to permanently revoke the invitation into his home.

_You’re pathetic._

His song slows, the thought of carrying on suddenly unbearable.

The events of that day so long ago are mere smears of colors, but the words he will carry forever seared in his mind. The shocking amount of hatred he had felt at that moment tries to latch onto him again, but he’s too old to even give that age old rivalry the satisfaction.

Instead, he brings his thoughts back to Scorpius and how Albus had marched out the front doors without so much as partings words, only to have his father march in as if he owned the place. This time, it was Draco who stood toe to toe with Harry Potter, refusing to step down from the barrage of obscenities that were thrown around.

Bad choices were brought up, and ex-wives were mentioned.

It had been completely childish on both their behalf, but more so on Potter when he drew his wand. Or perhaps it was Draco who stooped as low, answering the challenge by drawing his own.

The stinging hex had Potter flinching, but it was a haphazardly deflected _incendio_ that caused the most damage. The look of abject horror and regret on Potter’s face had almost been worth it, but not at the expanse of Draco’s robes catching fire. Nothing too grand, but it had been enough to make him retreat from their not-duel, nothing short of terrified and humiliated.

It all ended pretty quickly afterwards, with Potter leaving in the same fashion as his son.

Draco had stood there, incensed and helpless, and cursing every breathing thing under the blue summer skies.

Fucking Potter. Fucking everything.

All Draco can do is keep playing a song he hates, because he does, he hates that shit of a song with a burning passion. He hates that it portrays how he often feels, how he’s always felt, how he’s done so well at hiding.

Because Astoria never knew. Scorpius never will.

The issues of his past will remain in his past, and if they continue to tear at him at every waking day then so be it, it’s the smallest of consequences. Merlin knows he doesn’t deserve what he has.

He also decides he hates the piano in general and stops playing, pushing away from it with a loud screech from the bench he sits on. Had it not been for his wife and son, he would have burned the entire estate to the ground years ago.

**__________________________**

From a young age, Draco has been particularly gifted at compartmentalizing. He’s been good at a lot of things, not all of which he’s proud of.

He’s good at ignoring unwanted thoughts, at pushing them away and storing them for later wallowing. Too many a night he’s sat in his bedroom, feeling sorry for himself and licking his own wounds. He could care less how weak it seems; no one else cares for what he has to say, so he might as well ease his own headaches.

He’s good at whatever he sets his mind to, despite how grueling or impossible it proves to be.

He’s good at picking out a very specific shade of green among everyday objects, and it’s not even a source of aggravation anymore. It has become so ingrained throughout the years that it’s become second nature to him, to let his eyes wander until he finds the spot which the sun shines just right to imitate the vibrant green of eyes that had only ever been narrowed with scorn at him.

Draco is good at ignoring that sentimentality is one of his major character flaws.

In an old trunk stored away in a room no one wanders into, a scarlet and gold scarf rests hidden at the very bottom, buried underneath old school books and outdated robes.

There is a shred of comfort in knowing that life doesn’t contain answers once you grow older; magic does not fix the things that confuse and hurt you. Years and experience are only there to teach you how to cope, how to carry on as if the world around you weren’t crumbling at alarming speeds.

Lucius Malfoy had been the prime example of how growing up killed any shred of passion within one’s self, but life had once again proved Draco wrong. It irks him. He wants answers. He wants to know how to not care, rather than pretend not to and then fall apart behind closed doors.

There is no telling if Draco resents or adores Potter for keeping that fire alive, that twinge of fresh air that tells him not all is different, not all passion is lost. The blinding anger that lights up Draco’s fingers makes him giddy, makes him smile with wicked delight. Potter still gets under his skin, still excites him just as he did back in school; only, now, Draco refrains from shoving a hand down his trousers like a juvenile twat.

Shame stops him from thinking about it.

Harry Potter had been out of his league since the moment eleven-year-old Draco had held out his hand, and continued to be so throughout their entire lives. He had become nothing more than a background nuisance Draco enjoyed riling up simply because it was the only way to get the Golden Boy’s attention. And, Merlin, how Draco wanted it. He had wanted a lot of things from Potter, mostly his hands on him; affectionate or violent, he hadn’t cared.

It was best Draco didn’t get everything he wanted.

With great effort and grievance, he shakes his head free of musings best left buried. That ship has sailed. Actually, the ship had never existed to begin with. Never once had he fooled himself into thinking he could have Harry Potter, or any man for that matter.

The cauldron comes to a simmer and Draco moves to the cabinet farthest from him. Drawing his wand, he mutters an incantation and one by one undoes the protective charms his father set decades ago.

The Malfoy vaults are, and will forever remain, littered with object and ingredients best left unmentioned. Often does he admire them, relishing that they are all his now. 

Ancient wards have held up against the Ministry’s most vicious attempts at uncovering them, especially after the war, when the manor had given off bafflingly strong traces of Dark Magic. His father had argued that it was all due to the Dark Lord’s residency.

It was a load of lies, of course. Malfoy Manor could pass as a museum of Dark Objects, right down to the cellar he stands in. Once dungeons, the area is particularly useful for brewing, and he enjoys spending his time fiddling with potions. Legal ones, obviously.

Today, however, Draco pushes the limit he’s set upon himself.

Slipping on a thick leather glove, he reaches into the cabinet for a specific vial not cataloged in their records. The white liquid that rests inside is innocuous enough, powerfully concentrated and exceedingly rare. Impossible to purchase and unspeakably difficult to brew, Draco treats it with extreme care as he sets it down on the table.

Anxiety gathers along his shoulders as he stares at the otherwise unassuming vial, grueling over what it would mean to destroy years of magical sobriety. Not that he ever directly dabbled in the Dark Arts, not explicitly, but the Mark on his arm burns like a ghostly reminder to how close he had come.

The project at hand, though not necessarily Dark, consists of methods so arcane the Ministry has seen no need to ban on grounds that no records of its usage exist. It is old magic, magic so powerful it is believed to be a myth - and may well just be. Otherwise, there is no doubt the Dark Lord would have weaponized it.

Draco hopes it proves to be more than myth.

The white liquid alone is one of the five brewed during the time the four founders had placed the very first stones of Hogwarts’ foundation.

_It’ll be worth it,_ he tells himself.

The star charts glow in the faint lighting of the cellar, making the gold of the astrolabe dull and lifeless as it moves in accordance to the astrarium. Planets set in motion, moons and satellites coming to life with the slightest flick of his wand.

All he needs is one more ingredient to begin the final process of his own great work, and this will bring it to him.

Pouring the vial’s contents into the bubbling cauldron, he covers it and steps away. He charms the fire to continue burning until morning, when he’s to return and apply the same measures once again. If his charting is correct, he only need do this for the upcoming six months.

Removing all sources of light from the cellar, Draco walks out and closes the door, setting up layer after layer of protective spells.

**__________________________**

The call comes late one evening when Draco is about to turn in for the night, robes halfway off his arms when Beems appears outside his bedroom door.

“A guest at the door, Master Malfoy,” says the decrepit house elf. “Would you like me to send them away, sir?”

Draco frowns, rearranging his robes into something presentable. “Who is it?”

“Harry Potter, sir.”

Something resembling ice cold fear settles in his limbs, a dozen thoughts instantaneously making their way to the forefront of his mind, all of which as gruesome as the last. He thinks about Albus and his notable absence as summer progresses, about how angry Draco had been when Potter had forbidden his son from interacting with Scorpius.

Normally, Draco would have Beems show a guest to the drawing room with tea and biscuits, but he would rather deal with this himself. 

Odd, considering how prominent Potter had been in his thoughts just this morning.

“I’ll be out shortly,” is all he says.

Without bothering to do up his hair, much less change into something decent enough to greet guests in, Draco storms out of his rooms. Not like Potter would be able to tell the difference anyway.

An hour to midnight is hardly a proper visiting hour, and by all means he should send him away, but a tiny voice whispers behind his ear: _opportunity._

He navigates the dark halls with ease, with nothing but the fast clip of his shoes for sound. Portraits stir in his peripheral vision before settling back to sleep. It’s a night like any other when he finds himself wandering without a destination, unable to find anything besides terror within his dreams.

But anticipation lingers, along with a keen sense of dread he knows all too well.

He tugs his robes closer to himself as he reaches the receiving area, the cold night air bleeding in through the age-old walls.

Potter stands by the doors, wrapped in one of the same horrid Muggle jumpers they all seem to be overly fond of. He looks somehow small in the flickering candlelight, his hair the same disarrayed mess it always is. There’s a small bundle of something by his feet Draco only fleetingly takes notice of before focusing on the man himself, his stride slowing to a careful approach.

“It’s late,” are the only words he can think of, startling Potter into turning towards him.

Draco’s shoulders ease the smallest bit at the lack of urgency on Potter’s face, which means Albus is alright. The relief is almost overwhelming, making him wonder just when he began to care for the disgruntled teenager on such a level.

“Malfoy,” Potter greets with a barely there nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He doesn’t say anything else although he looks like he wants to, words apparently failing him and feeling awkward about it.

The day’s earlier reminiscing makes Draco take pity on him.

“Do come in if you’d like,” he says, gesturing into a house he knows is oppressively dark due to the late hour. “It’s surprisingly cold for the end of August.”

Potter doesn’t make it any easier despite the icebreaker, looking at Draco as if he’s grown another head. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks.” He turns to the door that closes behind him, a brief look of discomfort crossing his features. “I apologize for the late visit.”

“I hope there’s nothing wrong.”

“No,” he says, shuffling his feet but taking no initiative towards stepping further in. “Not that I’m aware of. Albus is spending the night with his uncle.”

“How is Albus? It’s been awhile since we've been graced with his presence.” It sounds far too sarcastic to be an honest question, but Draco fears he knows no way else to speak to him.

Potter is back to staring at him, at his robes, and Draco feels his face warm. Of course the man has finally picked up on proper etiquette, just enough to make Draco feel inadequate. He might as well be wearing only his undergarments.

“Look,” Potter begins, steeling himself with a breath. “I know I’m not your favorite person, and you’re definitely not mine. But could we have a civil conversation?”

“Considering our sons are beyond the point of civility?” Draco prods, still put off by the idea.

Potter scoffs, leaning down to pick up the bundle that’s gone ignored from the start. “Ogden’s,” is all he offers, and Draco raises a surprised eyebrow.

Without a word, he cants his head in order for Potter to follow, keenly aware that the last time he was here rooms had been destroyed.

Sparing him from the dark, Draco casts a wordless _lumos_ to light their way.

The beat of four footsteps in the otherwise quiet expanse around them brings a heaviness to his heart, unbidden memories twisting thoughts and feelings alike. It feels like a desecration, allowing this man to walk the same halls Astoria did. The same halls his parents paced.

It also incites a quiet sense of calm, a quench to his otherwise suffocating loneliness.

Without thinking better of it, Draco leads him to his study, where he lights the fire and invites him to take a seat.

“Originally, the intention was to talk about our kids,” Potter finally says, breaking the silence. Draco serves him a glass of firewhiskey. “Thanks.”

“I should be thanking you for the drinks,” Draco replies, settling into the chair next to his. Like this he can focus on the crackling dance of the fire in the hearth rather than the silhouette of the man sitting beside him.

“Nothing like firewhiskey and Veritaserum to make people talk.” He pauses. “Not that I’ve laced it, honestly.”

“You wouldn’t be that clever,” Draco says. “Idiotic, yes, but not clever.”

Potter laughs. “Considered it, but in the end I figured it’d be a waste of resources.”

“What is it you so badly want to know that you’re considering illegal methods of investigation, Auror Potter?”

Pursing his lips, Potter shakes his head. He takes a sip from his glass, and it’s only then that Draco deems it safe to drink. “Nowadays I figure I could just ask.”

“That doesn’t guarantee you an answer.”

“No.” Stretching out his legs, he crosses them at the ankles in a very familiar way. “For the longest time I’ve been wondering what Albus sees in your son, and then I realized you would have been a lot like him hadn’t you been a right ponce.”

“I can’t tell whether or not I should take that as a compliment,” Draco says with the slightest hint of bitterness.

“He’s a good kid,” Harry clarifies, his eyes intently on his drink. “It’s done Albus right good to be his friend.”

The admittance takes Draco wholly by surprise, almost enough for him to gape. He catches himself in time, entirely smug. “Good,” is all he says.

“I heard about Scorpius’ interest in going to a Muggle university. They’re not all that bad, you know. Statute of Secrecy aside, if observed, he could be named one of the greatest minds of our time. The next Einstein, even.”

“Strictly from a Muggle perspective.”

Potter nods, then says, “I’m surprised at the lack of a snide comment asking who Einstein is.”

“Contrary to whatever you may believe, Potter, I’m not completely illiterate in the manners of Muggle science. Ever since Scorpius brought it up, I’ve been looking into it.” He takes a healthy swig of his firewhiskey, fingers twitching. The lie is subtle enough.

“I thought you didn’t believe in Muggle anything,” he says, sounding vaguely bewildered.

“Haven’t we discussed this before?” Draco snaps, irritated at having been reminded of the events of their sons’ fourth year. “Just because I don’t approve of certain aspects of Muggle living doesn’t mean I don’t believe in it. Science does not cease to be just because I don’t like it. I just have issues with its practical application and their insistence of living in the Stone Age.”

“Says the pureblood traditionalist.”

“Drink your bloody whiskey.”

Potter is smiling again, this time in disbelief.

Several more glasses are drunk, a charged silence settling between them.

Draco is overcome with thoughts of how different life would have been if only they’d been this civil during their formative years. Without spoken words, without blatant shows of superiority. Simple nights spent in the Great Hall, where the only threat looming over their heads was a Transfigurations essay due the following morning.

“I guess it’s only fair to admit I’m jealous of you,” Potter says, low enough to be missed. He sounds reluctant. “I continue to try, but there’s no way to make it work.”

The meaning behind the confession slowly sinks in, making warmth spread along the nape of Draco’s neck. He recalls making a similar statement several years ago, telling Potter how he and his friends shined with a light Draco could never hope to experience.

Strangely, it feels like a mountainous gap has been crossed.

Leaning forward, Draco releases the clasp on his robes. He rests his elbows on his knees and it’s as far away from proper as proper can be, but the conversation calls for it. Tonight, he doesn’t want to be a better version of his father, he wants to be _Draco_ Malfoy. He wants to be the boy he longed to be, the young man he wished to be, and the man he has become.

Pressing fingers to his temple, he sighs.

“What? Did you expect it would be easy? That name-dropping would grant you all you wanted?”

Potter doesn’t answer immediately, and Draco can feel his eyes on him. “Sod off.”

“He’s your son, not a follower.”

“Neither James or Lily had this problem.”

“Because James and Lily are James and Lily, not Albus,” Draco says, biting back any more scathing remarks. “Not everyone is cut with the same mold, no matter how avidly you wish they were.” He breathes in deep, accepting that not only he’s at fault for being prejudiced. “The world isn’t black and white, and a house doesn’t define a person. That you would frown down on your son for the green on his tie is despicable.”

Potter pushes himself out of the chair with a grunt, turning his back to Draco. He stands in front of the cabinet with an assortment of skulls on display, his shoulders rising and falling with each agitated huff.

“I know I’m _wrong_ ,” he says, voice rising just enough to be a shout.

“And you hate it,” Draco is quick to add, just as loud, understanding where Potter stands. “You hate that you’re wrong but you can’t help it, because it’s what you were raised to believe. That all Slytherins are evil. That Malfoys are the scum of the Earth. That some people shouldn’t be allowed second chances.” He can’t help but be petty. “How does it feel, Potter, to be on the losing side for once in your glorious life?”

“How does it feel, Malfoy, to finally do something right for once in your life?”

Draco too stands up, placing his glass on the mantelpiece before making his way towards his desk. “Rather satisfied, actually,” he says coolly. “Clearly I’ve done more than one thing right to have raised someone like Scorpius. Though, I admit, Astoria might have had a bigger hand in that.”

The sound of a glass hitting a wooden surface is oddly satisfying. “It’s no fun unless you get defensive.”

“We’re adults. Would you rather I tell my father you’re bullying me?”

“You’re the one that’s bullying me.”

“I’m hardly trying.”

Astoria looks up at him from the photograph on his desk, her hair done up in a pristine bun with only a few strands falling over her face. Her smile is small and muted as an infant Scorpius pats her cheeks, soundlessly giggling as she spins him in the snow covered gardens.

He’s made aware of the dull ache that never truly leaves him, and he finds himself agreeing with Potter’s statement. For once, he should be jealous of Draco.

“It’s Wednesday,” Draco says offhandedly, turning the photograph away. He directs his attention to the locked cabinet in the corner, steadying his suddenly wavering resolve of going through with his work.

“I’m aware.”

He wants to ask why he’d spend his evening in Draco’s company rather than his mates, but refrains. Draco understands the need to step away from the monotonous constants of life, and maybe his thoughts about rekindling old passions goes both ways. If there is one thing he is sure of, it’s that nobody gets under Potter’s skin quite like he does.

“Another drink?”

“Please and thank you.”


	5. 04.

King’s Cross is the usual hub of madness it often is on the first of September with it’s deafening chatter, constant bumping into, and feet-stepping all along Platform 9¾. The rainy day does little to quell students’ enthusiasm, flashes of red, green, blue, and yellow darting here and there as they rush to board. Owls, cats, rats, and a myriad of other creatures too flit by.

“This is definitely the year!” Scorpius declares over the riotous voices. “Slytherin is taking the House Cup, I swear it.”

Beside him, Draco smirks. “I respect your confidence.”

Navigating the cart is a nightmare, but Scorpius manages just fine. At one point he gathers enough speed to put his feet up and ride it, but quickly realizes what a terrible idea it is when he nearly runs over a second year.

“Yup, the utmost confidence, actually,” he adds nervously, apologizing time and again to the tiny Ravenclaw. He quickly regains the bounce in his step, however, slouching over the handlebar. “Not only that. We’re going beat every other house at Quidditch, I’ll personally make sure of it.”

“Your superb skills should be enough to guarantee the championship.”

“Obviously.” Scorpius smiles up at him, and it’s the first pleasant interaction they’ve shared in weeks. “That, paired with Albus and his talent for bribery.”

“Be sure to let me know if he’s able to bribe the entirety of the opposing team,” Draco says wryly, unsure if there’s any truth behind the statement. It wouldn’t come as a surprise.

“You’ll report him. Get him detention.”

“No, so that I can congratulate him on a job well done.” A Slytherin through and through. “Promise me you will at least try to score anything above Poor in your NEWTs,” he says. Muggle school or not, Draco is well aware of a teenager’s constantly changing mind. The hope that Scorpius will decide on a more respectable career still goes strong.

“Nothing less than Exceeds Expectations,” Scorpius assures him, but his attention is quickly drawn away as he waves at someone among the throng of people.

Draco spots Weasley before anyone else, his shock of red hair standing out in a sea of otherwise dark colors. Granger stands next to him, fussing over their daughter’s hair, and Draco wonders why the Minister for Magic would rely on the train to get her children to Hogsmeade. Granted, the Hogwarts Express is far safer than any other means of transportation, but something about not taking advantage of resources grates his nerves.

Next to them is Potter, engaging Weasley in a lively yet one-sided conversation while both Albus and his youngest offspring, Lily, pick and poke at each other over something or another. She’s the first to see Scorpius, who is now calling out to them with a bright grin.

He vaguely recalls the time Scorpius harbored a crush on Granger-Weasley, and Draco would have been happier had his son chosen her. But as is, he has no say in matters of the heart. Or hormones, in any case.

Albus pats Lily’s shoulder before darting half way across the platform, flinging himself and wrapping Scorpius is a hug nothing short of crushing. They both laugh, because Draco is reluctant to call the titling noises they make giggling, and it is both incredibly sweet and somewhat nauseating.

At least they’re once more on good terms.

“Last time,” Albus declares with another loud laugh, turning away to coo a good morning at Scorpius’ owl. “Almost feel nostalgic about it. _Almost_ being the operative word here. Hi, Draco.”

“Hello, Albus.” It’s a strange thing, being on first name basis. He wonders when he stopped being ‘sir’ and ‘Mister Malfoy’.

“The train I’ll miss,” Scorpius says, withdrawing a packet of treats from his pocket. He hands it over to Albus, who thanks him and splits it between both their owls. “The platform? Not so much. Not even the Great Hall during Sorting gives me this much of a headache.”

Their last year has finally arrived, and Draco smiles pleasantly through the dull ache in his chest. His son has finally grown up, but he can’t help but feel like he’s missed the most important parts of it, despite having been there for every single one.

Out of the corner of his eye he spots another head of red hesitantly approach them, lingering just behind Albus’ arm. Lily Potter is very much the spitting image of her mother, for the exception of her eyes which are strictly the same color as her father’s. It’s deeply unsettling.

She looks up at Draco with something akin to fear, but it’s the first time she’s ever even acknowledged his presence, which is understandable. He tries his best to give her a warm smile that sits awkward on his face, and all he gets for his troubles is an unimpressed raise of her eyebrows. He really should have known better.

“Miss Potter,” he tries, garnering the attention of Albus and Scorpius who first look up at him, then down at her.

Lily fixes him with a curious glare before smirking. “Hello,” is all she says, and is polite - or sarcastic - enough to curtsy. Draco extends his hand and is surprised when she places hers over his expectantly, so he graciously bows like a proper gentleman.

“That’s weird,” he hears Albus say despite the amusement in his voice.

She drops her hand and retreats to stand between Albus and Scorpius, bumping into both their shoulders with a triumphant smile. The three of them share a look.

Draco feels like he’s missed something, but doesn’t inquire as to what.

“You and Scorpius should visit us sometime,” she says without preamble, the bravado in her tone leaving no room for argument. “Al’s always spending time at the Manor and I admit I’m getting a bit jealous of the special treatment.”

“Don’t. There will be many a regret,” Albus interjects, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We may have accidentally set some of the rooms on fire. With Lily, there’s no such thing as accidents.”

“She’s an outright pyromaniac,” Scorpius adds with a solemn nod.

“Unlike some people I know how to behave myself.” She sticks out her tongue. “I just really want to see the peacocks.” This she directs at Draco, her dark cheeks slightly flushed at being called out by the boys.

“I keep telling her they’re really not that great,” Scorpius says, putting up his hands. “They’re bloody bastards. Chase you all around the gardens and try eating your laces.”

“And peck your hands,” says Albus.

“And they smell.”

“Sounds a lot like James,” Lily comments, her mouth twisted into a confused smile, and Draco hears himself laugh before it’s too late.

He freezes mid-breath, looking bewildered at the three kids who grin and smirk at him with varying degrees of thinly concealed satisfaction. It’s as if he’s stepped into another world where people genuinely like him, and it’s as worrying as it is pleasant.

Draco clears his throat, suddenly becomes aware of his hands and thus unsure of what to do with them. After a moment’s deliberation, he nods his head. “You’re welcome to visit whenever you wish,” he finally says. “If you’re fond of the birds I’ll have them shipped directly to you. They’re a menace.”

Albus agrees. “Especially Chip. The one with the purple crest? He’s a mean one.”

“Of course you named them,” Draco mutters.

Eventually, Potter joins them with a slightly deflated look that is oddly charming on him. Draco curses him for how unfairly fit he looks in his maroon Auror robes, like an actual wizard worth his salt in society. Even while slouching Potter looks intimidating, exuding authority with nothing but the narrowing of his eyes.

Draco hates how easily his walls have crumbled, how a single night of tense conversation has awakened a thirst he thought long ago vanished.

“You two better not be bothering anyone,” Potter says, fixing his children with a withering glare.

“I was telling Mr. Malfoy how I wanted to keep his peacocks,” Lily declares.

“For a Boxing Day roast?” Potter asks innocently, and it’s Draco’s turn to glare.

“You’re not cooking my birds.”

“Actually,” Albus interjects, casually stepping away from his father and closer to Draco, “Lily was talking about _all_ of the special treatment I get. Ridiculous, really. We all know just how equal we all are.”

The biting comment doesn’t surprise Draco in the slightest, having caught bits and pieces of conversation between him and Scorpius throughout the summer. Remarkably, there’s a note of bitter guilt Draco feels towards this. Awareness that it isn’t his fault that father and son don’t get along isn’t enough to quell the unease he feels day in and day out.

He wishes magic could be enough to fix it. Not for Potter, but for Albus.

“Save us the rant, emo boy,” Lily says, waving him off with a scoff. “Grow up.”

“I can make life very difficult for you,” Albus suggests darkly, stopping only when Scorpius jabs him on the side. “I’m her brother. It’s my _job_.”

“That’s enough you two,” Potter intervenes, putting a hand over Lily’s shoulder and gently pulling her away. 

She seems ready to physically fight Albus, and Draco is promptly impressed by her feistiness. Out of all the Potter-Weasley siblings, she seems to have inherited her father’s natural inability to avoid conflict. She must be a source of constant headaches for Harry Potter, and Draco thoroughly appreciates her for it.

The whistle blows just then, startling a new wave of even louder voices into action.

Goodbyes are now being said in all sorts of ways, from stiff seventh years to nervous first years.

Scorpius wraps his arms around Draco in one of those rare but precious hugs they occasionally share, and Draco can’t help the quiet laugh that escapes him. He wonders when Scorpius got taller than him but it doesn’t matter, because despite all he’s lost here is the one good thing he still has.

Patting his back, Draco is the first to pull away with a tight smile. “Be safe,” he says, squeezing Scorpius’ elbow. “Don’t forget to write.”

“I won’t”, Scorpius promises as he picks up his owl’s cage. “Write me if anything interesting happens.”

Curiously, Albus steps up to Draco with wide expectant eyes. Instinct tells him to step away. Instead, Draco rests a hand over his shoulder. “Make sure Scorpius doesn’t get into trouble.”

Albus shakes his head. “Usually he’s the one that keeps me in check.”

And then he’s gone, his back disappearing into the mass of students rushing into the train, with Scorpius by his side. Lily follows close behind, chatting with another girl and throwing one last look over her shoulder at him before hopping onboard.

Surreal doesn’t begin to explain the experience.

He catches Potter openly staring at him but he quickly looks away once Draco casts a sharp glare in his direction. He dares him to say anything with a look alone.

They linger just feet apart from each other as the Hogwarts Express finally leaves the station, sent away with frenzied waves and uplifting whistles of good luck. Rain becomes torrential outside the enchanted walls, feeding the gloom that gently wraps itself around Draco’s shoulders.

Nothing but an empty house awaits him now. That, and those Salazar-forsaken birds.

“The start of another year,” says a high voice, nearly ripping him out of his thoughts in an unpleasant fashion. “Nice seeing you, Draco.”

“Minister,” he says in greeting, extending a hand for her to shake. Granger grants him her most professional smile, her grip firm and merciless and right.

He goes through the pleasantries of shaking Weasley’s hand as well, and does his best to keep his surprise in check when he and Potter keep their distance. They barely exchange words, using Granger as a sort of buffer in a way that is downright childish.

Intrigue has always been a poison to Draco, curiosity as alluring as any siren call he dared not heed. He hadn’t given any thought to how the relationship between Potter and Weasley must be after the divorce, but he hadn’t expected the detached coldness he sees stand between them like a wall. Draco knows very little details about the end of the most celebrated marriage in the wizarding world, but he at least figured that their friendship could have weathered it.

Apparently, he was wrong. And Harry Potter was not having a very good time.

They carry on shortly after when the platform is empty enough to navigate without bumping into someone or another, Granger’s handsome robes flowing behind her with an impressive billow. Weasley tells her something and she replies with a touch to his arm, and then they’re gone.

“Nothing lasts forever, eh, Potter?” he throws over his shoulder, but his words lack any sort of venom.

“Quit it,” Potter warns, walking past him with hands fisted by his side.

It’s really no fun if he doesn’t throw a jab right back, so Draco drops it.

He looks at his watch and sees that it’s a quarter past eleven, debates whether or not he should stop by Diagon Alley to pick up ingredients for a lighter potion that might keep his mind occupied for a couple of days.

Draco tries not to think in wide gaps of time, finding it easier to focus day by day. October will come when it comes, and so will November; so on, so forth. Graduation is still a school year away. He could use the alone time to throw himself into his research, to finally catch that blasted rock and pulverize it into something useful. He can do so many things.

A hint of crimson sneaks into his field of vision and he realizes he’s been glaring down at his watch for quite some time.

He glances up to see Potter standing right in front of him, with a look on his face that suggests he’s not happy with what he’s about to say. Draco braces himself for whatever may come, but where Potter is concerned, he thinks it a pretty useless tactic.

“As aware of my good looks as I am, I’d rather you not stare.”

Potter gapes, closes his mouth, and turns on his heels.

Draco looks down at his watch again, following the seconds hand for three ticks until Potter rounds on him once more.

“What are you doing?” he demands, and were he not so amused, Draco would have told him to sod off.

“Looking at my watch. You may want to get your glasses checked.”

“No, I mean,” Potter stops, heaves a breath, and presses his lips into a thin line. It’s a very Albus thing, and Draco has to look away. “I mean what are you doing in general.” He makes a vague fluttering gesture with his hand. “The department won’t need me in for another three hours.”

“Fascinating facts abound.”

Potter puts a hand up, as if he were trying not to lash out. “Lunch. I’m offering lunch. On me.”

Draco’s fingers twitch. Fearing a trap, despite the lack of evidence and need for one, he casts a dubious look around. “And risk be seen with you?”

“Who knows? Might just help your rep,” is Potter’s snide comment.

“You’re not doing a very good job at convincing me to join you.”

“I don’t have to.” Then, with a sharp look over his shoulder, “I’ve got something you want.”

The words strike a chord in Draco that in turn heats his blood, stirring a want he quickly and violently obliterates. This sort of thought cannot be allowed to blossom more than it already has, especially if their sons are, potentially, seeing each other. Among other reasons.

“And when did you become such an expert on my wants?”

Potter shrugs. “When you opened your doors and invited me in.”

**__________________________**

Diagon Alley is eerily silent for the hour of day, with only the rare soul meandering in and out of scattered shops. With the school year officially underway, the hysterical mass of students and parents alike scouring high and low to check off books and other miscellanea has gone, leaving the cobblestone streets devoid of life.

The overcast skies do little to mute the gaudy colors that stick out of the otherwise dull storefronts. Light pours out from window displays, the smell of candy and sweets wafts through the air, and a handful of discordant notes flow in from an indeterminable direction.

Vaguely surreal how different a location can be when people are removed. More so with the lack of impending war looming over rooftops.

Side-stepping a puddle, Draco casts fleeting looks around him. He’s no stranger to wayward hexes ‘accidentally’ cast his way, and he’s in no mood to quietly back down without so much a reprimand or else risk repercussions. A hindrance, but a truly small price to pay for his sins.

“The Hog’s Head?”

Potter’s question rudely reminds him that he’s not on his own. His thoughts of vigilante wizards suddenly seem for naught. Nobody would dare lift a wand when the Head of the DMLE was in the same space. Draco supposes walking with the Head Auror has its perks.

“All you can afford, is it?” is his remark, for lack of a better one. He’d rather avoid any and all establishments that dredge up uncomfortable memories.

“Grow up, Malfoy.”

“I will when you do.”

Equally surreal is that they’ve come this far without physically having a go at each other. Draco had expected them to at least draw wands at some point or another, throw about a rude observation, but Potter has been extraordinarily civil. He’s done his best to return the decency.

Following without much thought, Draco realizes that they’re walking in the opposite direction of the aforementioned place. They head north, towards the quieter parts, where students rarely wonder and adults often frequent. 

Intrigued, Draco keeps his mouth shut.

He wonders what it was that Potter alluded to back on the platform with a bit of trepidation, hoping he hasn’t been too obvious. But if the insufferable buffoon failed to see it back in school, the odds of him noticing now are slim. His wit may be sharper, but Draco has gotten unspeakably better at guarding himself from outside eyes.

“Consider this an apology,” Potter says, once again achieving in making Draco trip over himself. “Don’t get used to it.”

“A single lunch is hardly enough to make up for a lifetime,” Draco says, but doesn’t meet Potter’s eyes when he turns to him. “But it’s definitely a start.”

For a heartstopping moment Potter looks like he’s about to say something Draco will never be able to unhear, but he thankfully stops himself. Instead, he says, “Dinner next time.”

“Don’t kid yourself.”

They enter a tavern Draco has only ever walked by and are immediately overtaken by the muggy warmth and rich smell of roasting pig. Ambient lighting makes Draco take a moment to adjust his sight before stepping farther into the waiting area. It’s far more put together than all the other places he’s frequented since his youth, and less ominous.

It’s only a matter of seconds before they’re led to a table by the only window in the tavern, leaving them bared to any passerbys in the mood to gawk. 

Feeling terribly exposed, Draco tries his hardest not to let his attention wander outside, instead focusing on the single candle that lights up the immediate area of their tiny table. He immediately extinguishes it, making Potter hide a laugh behind a cough.

“I know. I didn’t exactly think this through.”

“Not like you ever do,” Draco says, occupying his hands by leafing through the menu. He sees nothing overly interesting, but the selection could be a lot more awful. “Thought you’d be past your impulsive decision making. Surprising to have you sitting here when you could be off with your mates.”

Potter unclasps his traveling cloak and lets it fall unceremoniously over the back of his chair, not bothering with standing up and folding it to prevent wrinkles. Ever so uncaring.

“If by mates you mean everyone in the department, I already spend more than half my day in their presence.” Potter pulls a face that says their company isn’t the best, and Draco takes his word for it. “As for the rest of the lot, they’re too busy dealing with their own.” He shrugs. “Difficult navigating through all our schedules to find free time that coincides.”

“What a sad day when Draco Malfoy is your only bet for decent company.”

“Honestly.” Potter sniffs, absentmindedly pushes his glasses up his nose. “Although, I rather like your company. More so now than I did back in the day.”

The beginnings of a beard bows around a particularly nasty scar high on right cheek, and if trimmed correctly, Draco can bet good money that Potter would look downright dashing.

The polished surface of the table feels smooth underneath Draco’s thumb as he strokes it, looking down at the menu and marveling at the brashness of Potter’s confession. “My charming personality lured you in, has it?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely.”

“I blame the Nargles,” Draco says, a joke he often falls back on when in company he has no need to act as pureblood elite around. It’s all Lovegood’s fault, but it’s silly enough to have found a permanent place in his heart.

Worth it to hear Potter laugh incredulously. He raises a hand although it lacks a glass. “Cheers.”

Draco bites back a smile. This is probably the first time Potter has let his guard down around him enough to genuinely laugh, and it is a sight Draco wishes he could immortalize in amber and hang it from his neck.

He berates himself the thought. Normally, he’s a lot better at keeping emotions in check but Potter has proved insidious, seeping in through hairline cracks and weakening the pillars of his fortress.

“Haven’t seen you about. I thought you’d be more proactive where the Ministry is concerned.”

Draco doesn’t answer until a server takes their orders.

“Raising a child is time consuming, as you should be well aware by now. Scorpius isn’t overly dependent, but he does like having company during hols.”

“Find it difficult to deny him, huh?”

“I also enjoy traveling.”

“By yourself?”

“It allows room for contemplation.”

Potter slowly nods his head as he reaches for the silverware, his fingers idly moving them about. “Never been one for traveling.” He says it as if it were a fresh realization. “Never even thought about doing so.”

“Neither did I until Mother passed.” Draco focuses on a tiny shop across the street, where flowers line the windowsill. “I remember how avidly she would describe places she’d never been to, reciting from passages read in books or travel articles in the Prophet.”

“Hard to believe the Malfoys didn’t indulge in it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well,” he begins, looking off in the same direction as Draco. “You had the money.”

“And a patriarch obsessed with deals that didn’t concern him.” Even during the years of the Dark Lord’s absence, there was always something Lucius had his eye on. Illegal artifacts, mostly, and political blackmail to gather and exploit. “Never any time. Never any true desire to spend it with the family. For a man who didn’t work, he was certainly always too busy to take a moment beside dinner to share with us.”

“I wonder, sometimes, if having no parents is better than having shit ones.”

Draco turns to find Potter staring at him with a look of naked interest, a look so open and honest that Draco has to look away before forgetting his decorum.

It’s a good question, bordering on the offensive, but he takes no insult. He both loved and hated his parents, in the end, but it was the trials and tribulations they put him through that made him emerge the man he is today. The resentment will never leave, that birthed from a fascist father and quietly observant mother, but they are and forever will be his family.

“I don’t know,” is all Draco can say. “But I’m glad that things turned out the way they did. Albeit imperfect.”

The lines beside Potter’s mouth crease when he smiles, his eyes miles away. He does nod, and the moment draw’s Draco’s attention to the unruly mop of hair that in no way has changed since their school years. Maybe it’s a little bit grayer, but that might be more due to a heavy workload than age.

“How do you do it?” Potter asks in a muted voice, and Draco can’t decide the emotion behind it. “With everything…” he stops, reconsiders his words. “How do you do it?”

_Without Astoria, with Scorpius, with your name, your reputation, the scars, the regrets._ Draco can hear each unspoken word and feels them cut sharper than a sword. It weighs heavy upon his shoulders, the truths of his life. Each day is a challenge, each morning a milestone when he pushes himself off his bed and decides to face a new day.

The answer to Harry’s question is simple enough: he hasn’t the slightest idea as to how, but he tries. With every ounce of anger and sheer spite, with every bit of love he can scrape up from the darkest pits of his heart, he tries. It’s a tactic yet to fail him, as dubious a tactic it is.

But it’s kept him alive after all this time.


	6. 05.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Write it in letter format, they said. It'd be easy, they said. Fuck you, I said.

_**September** _

Dear Dad:

It’s nearly the end of September and I’m yet to receive any letters from you. I’m only slightly worried because even at your busiest you’ve managed a short correspondence. Hope all is well.

NEWT level lessons are as terrible as I thought they would be. Professor Flitwick is showing little to no mercy to his students, drowning us in countless essays on things I’m already adept at in both theory and practice. Even the Ravenclaws in our study group won’t quit complaining. Nevermind that all this cuts into Quidditch practice.

Speaking of, I’ve made team captain! Who would have thought that I, the boy with no athletic skill whatsoever, would make it this far? I sure didn’t. Neither did the entirety of Slytherin House, for the exception of Albus. The party following the announcement was nothing short of explosive.

On that note, my broom met a violent end at the hands of the Whomping Willow. The match against Hufflepuff was made far more difficult due to a lightning storm, but I’m fine. Nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn’t fix in a matter of days. My memory is more or less intact, but she insists it’s just a brief side-effect of the potion.

I’ll keep this short as I’ve got loads of assignments to get done. Hope to hear from you soon.

Love,  
Scorpius

**__________________________**

_\- This is merely a prototype. Be sure to treat it with care._

_\- D.M_

**__________________________**

Dear Scorpius:

I apologize for the bout of silence on my behalf. Research has proven a very time-consuming hobby, given that I barely even notice the hours that pass me by. It’s really quite therapeutic, albeit strenuous on the nerves when ingredients insist on blowing up rather than brewing.

But nevermind that. Congratulations on making team captain. You give yourself very little credit for the amount of skill you posses, and I wish you could see the talent you’ve inherited from yours truly. I hope you and your fellow teammates are enjoying the new brooms; it’s become a bit of a family tradition I’m afraid. Be sure to let the Gryffindors know that they are clearly outsped by the latest Firebolt models.

As exciting as your sportsmanship may be, this is a reminder to not let your grades slip. Regardless of what you choose post Hogwarts, NEWT scores will alway trail behind you like a haunting reminder. I trust you will have no problem in establishing a balance for yourself for the remainder of the year. You are, after all, a Malfoy.

Please be safe. Fun and recklessness don’t need to go hand in hand.

Sincerely,  
D. M.

_**October** _

Dear Dad:

I’m unsure whether or not Professor McGonagall wrote you a letter, or Floo’d you, as she said she would, but I can explain. Before you get mad, expulsion was never in the cards to begin with. Bones thought himself smart and witty and brave, it backfired, Albus reacted badly, and I didn’t do so well myself. Whatever hexes were thrown were purely in self-defense, since Bones thought it’d be funny to pick a fight with Al because of me. In short, I was the only one to make it out with a few bumps and bruises but nothing grand. It all got fixed in a matter of moments. Trust me when I say there’s no need for you to stop by, please don’t, I can take care of this myself. Focus on your work, and I’ll focus on getting through the year in one piece. Only a couple more months until graduation, so how bad can it possibly be, right?

Scorpius

**__________________________**

Scorpius,

It’s with a formidable amount of effort and great sadness that I respect your wishes to avoid further confrontation. I am fully aware of your ability to protect yourself in the face of cowardly bullies, the need for my intervention nonexistent. But please understand that as your father I will not stand for boyish injustices.

I have spoken with the Headmistress and decided to hold back on any further action to avoid retaliation; however, Bones’ actions will not go unpunished. Imperfections aside, Hogwarts has done nicely in updating their stance on bullying.

If ever you need some time away, or simply want to talk, you know how to reach me.

Keep safe, and tell Albus that while his chivalry is appreciated, he should keep his nose to himself if he wishes to succeed. Nothing good ever comes from throwing in your lot with a Malfoy, no matter the intention behind it. 

With love,  
Your Father

**__________________________**

I’m doing better. Classes have been a hassle since my memory isn’t what it used to be. Pomfrey insists it should be back to normal in a couple of weeks, but I wish it would hurry up and fix itself already. Most of my professors have found alternate methods of grading me and I hate it. No one’s said it out loud yet, but I’m sure everyone dislikes me far more due to the ‘special treatment’ I’m getting. It’s all manageable, however, and hopefully everything will right itself soon enough. Unfortunately, I’ve had to forfeit my position as Captain due to previous injuries and a stricter study schedule.

Al says he appreciates your concern but, and I quote: “I do what I want”. While the phrase is a bit crude I respected the concept behind it. At least in regard to this situation. We’re allowed to have people on our side, friends who will stand up for us even we can do it ourselves. It’s nice, really, to know you aren’t alone, that your friend is willing to be shunned because they genuinely care for you. Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve someone like Al, what he saw in me the moment he walked into that cabin. Even after Rose told him who I was, he didn’t care. Our family names meant nothing to him. He didn’t throw in his lot with just a _Malfoy_ , he threw it in for _me_. Hate to break it to you, dad, but the Malfoys are yesterday’s news. Nobody thinks about us when we’re absent, so that should set you at ease somewhat. Personally, I don’t care. Bullies like Bones I can understand, even empathize with, but that’s it. They can’t destroy me. They can’t even touch me. Because I’m your son. _Like iron and silver._

All that aside, I hope your research is going smoothly. If there is anything you need just let me know, I can always look through the library in case there’s something we don’t have in ours.

P.S. Lily says it’s not fair that all of the Slytherin team gets new brooms and Gryffindor doesn’t. By Gryffindor she means her. By that, I think she means _hello_. She’s not the best at words.

Scorpius

**__________________________**

Dear Dad,

I won’t pretend to not know why you didn’t reply to my previous letter since I’m well aware to your aversion to anything regarding feelings or emotions. I stand by my belief that neither makes you weak, but that may be a personal one that you obviously do not share. I’ll be a nice person and leave it at that.

I’m writing to ask you a question.

On Monday the entirety of the Gryffindor Quidditch team received new brooms. The latest Firebolt model, to be exact. As this happened not a week after sending my letter, I’m curious to know if you’ve spoken to Harry at all, considering neither Al or Lily mentioned it to him.

Hope you’re doing well and not working too hard. Take a break, maybe head down to Diagon Alley and have a drink.

With love,  
Scorpius

**__________________________**

Dear Scorpius:

Forgive my extended silence but part of the spell limited my ability to speak, which made my self-writing quill as useless as my own hand. It’s been a very long week. The work has been successful thus far though I still have a way’s way to go. It should all be completed come the last week of December.

How have you been? Has your memory returned to its woeful self? Hopefully you’ve forgotten about that godawful shirt you loved. You know, the one I accidentally obliterated at the beginning of summer? Tell me some good has come of this incident.

I’m doing fairly well now that I can communicate again. I can also sleep without fear of being mute for the rest of my life. However would I have fared without scolding you for the rest of my life? Terrible.

To answer your previous question: yes, I have exchanged a word or two with Potter. Only brief ones whenever he drops by the manor to yell at me for something or another that is entirely not my fault. Mostly I think he assumes I’m here to corrupt Albus, but I’ve assured him time and again that all influencing is being done by none other than you - for the better, of course.

If you wish, you could become a star Quidditch player after Hogwarts. You’ll make Captain in no time. All I ask is you choose a team with respectable colors. Nothing with _orange_ , for the love of Merlin.

Your fan,  
Draco

_**November** _

Dear Dad,

You sound far too lively for someone who hasn’t used any form of communication for a while, but I assume I’d be giddy too after not talking for a couple of days. I’m excited to hear your work is going well and that there’s an end in sight! Will you be doing anything with it once done? Publishing, maybe? This is exciting.

I’m doing a lot better now that I’m finished with the potion. I do recall the shirt but I also recall setting fire to our kitchen in retribution, so I would call us even for the time being. Everyone’s forgotten about my specialized education program, but there are rumors among the faculty that Hogwarts may begin implementing a new system for students with learning disabilities and the like. If anything, I’m glad this mess gave way to improvement. I’m sure the Minister for Magic will be delighted by Professor McGonagall’s notion.

Forgive my bluntness, but you must be mental to think I could make a career out of sports of all things. You’d be a more adequate athlete than I would ever be. We should play sometime, although I don’t have the speed or the finesse of a Seeker. Maybe we’d be able to wrangle the Weasley’s in with Harry’s help; that way we could have an all out match. Wouldn’t that be wild? Our estate is big enough for an improvised Quidditch pitch, I bet.

Speaking of Harry, I’m surprised he’s dropped by more than once. If anyone is doing any sort of influencing, it’s Al. History of Magic really is as biased and boring as he insisted. I’m surprised it’s taken me nearly seven years to realize it. Can you believe he got detention for vandalizing one of the textbooks? He used a Weasley product to permanently change all mentions of Voldemort to Tom, which is hilarious really. _Lord Tom_ is far less menacing and far more suitable, I think. Pretty sure all the Headmistress did was offer him biscuits and tea for an hour after class.

Wholly unrelated, Madeline Keith asked me to accompany her to Hogsmeade this weekend and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. Al insists I be a gentleman and go, but I don’t want to give her the wrong idea. I could just tell her straight out, but this is also the first time anyone has asked me on a date. At least I think it’s a date. How silly’s that? Seventeen, and only now being asked out to Hogsmeade. Better late than never, I guess. To be honest, I never really cared for dating. Maybe I’ve been too wrapped up in my studies and other things, but the idea of a relationship never really held much interest for me.

I know what this must sound like, and lately I’ve been wondering if there’s something inherently wrong with me, or if it’s because I’m yet to meet the right person. Regardless, this date is something that is happening and we’ll see how it goes. I’ll keep you posted?

A mildly disgruntled student,  
Scorpius

**__________________________**

Scorpius,

You say seventeen as if it’s your last year on this Earth. At seventeen the rest of your life still stands before you, waiting for the path you choose for yourself. You’re still standing before a door, and it may feel like it’s locked, but you’re yet to turn the knob to find out. It all seems terrifying and overwhelming, but the greatest of empires were not built in a day.

Go on the date if you want to. Don’t go if you don’t want to. Tell her how you feel, or don’t, it’s strictly your choice. You’ve a lifetime to figure out who you are, to err and learn, to remake the faults and highlight your attributes. Don’t worry if you don’t have everything figured out by tomorrow, or by twenty, or thirty; it doesn’t matter. We are all works in progress with setbacks and breakthroughs, and it’s how we adapt to these situations that defines us.

There is nothing wrong with you.

You’re young. Youth makes us think stupid thoughts and do stupid things, things we will regret because more often than not we think we’re unstoppable, that the universe must bow to our woes and that it is cruel and unfeeling when it doesn’t.

Be what you want to be.

I am glad Hogwarts has decided to become more progressive where it counts. I am glad that you’ve proven to be a better man than Bones. I am glad that you’ve proven to be a better man than I ever was at your age. I am proud of you, Scorpius, and your mother would be, too.

P.S. I’ll be at Hogsmeade on the last Saturday of this month. Would you care to meet me for lunch?

Draco

**__________________________**

You best prepare yourself for a ridiculously tight hug on that day.

Scorpius

**__________________________**

I anxiously await it.

Draco


	7. 06.

“I sincerely fail to understand why on Earth you would request permission to Apparate out of Hogwarts for a weekend,” Draco huffs, pacing the long stretch of the dining room. “Dance lessons? Minerva had that down to an art back in the day and I doubt much has changed.”

“Well, yes, but,” Scorpius begins, stops only to carefully pick his words. “The Headmistress can only teach so many students, especially with the ball being in three weeks.”

“And Cortese is a nightmare of a sixth year,” Albus chimes in. “She’s been sent right to detention during the past two lessons alone. It’s impossible to concentrate.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “Besides, we get enough withering taunts as is. We’d like to get this over with with minimal ridicule, thanks very much. I figured the best way to do that was with private lessons,” he says, looking up at Draco with too big eyes that betray how big a lie it all is.

Draco fixes both boys with a suspicious glare before turning to Potter, who stands at the far end of the table with arms crossed in front of his chest. Just as calculating, he remains quiet long enough to unnerve Scorpius into bowing his head in embarrassment. Albus doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“You better not be in trouble.”

“We will be if we don’t learn how not to trip over people’s feet during a waltz,” Albus says. He threads his fingers together over the table, surreptitiously eyeing the tray of sandwiches a few spots down. “There’re rumors that the Ministry is holding a charity event on the night of the ball, which means there will be press, which means all eyes are going to be on us. Scorpius insisted we don’t humiliate our families.”

Draco casts Potter a questioning glance. “Is that true?”

Potter look off for a moment, thinking. “Maybe?” he offers with a shrug. “There’s a function being held on that day someplace else, but it wouldn’t be out of the norm for the Ministry to hold a charity event at the same time. It’s a convenient way to split feuding parties or mislead unwanted guests.”

“I just don’t see why you two had to come all this way,” Draco grips, pressing fingers to his temples. He’s had a headache since waking, further aggravated by a knock on the door and two very mischievous boys up to no good. It worsened considerably when a certain Auror decided to Floo in once getting word that his son had stepped outside school grounds.

“Scorpius insists you’re the best dancer he knows.” Finally caving, Albus reaches for one of the triangle cut sandwiches. “By extension, that makes you the best dancer we all know.”

“I can dance,” Potter defends, indignant that Albus wouldn't even mention it.

Draco knows better. “Potter, you’re a menace. The last time I saw you dance you nearly broke Patil’s toe.”

“Did not! That was Ron. I tried to warn her and she didn’t listen to me. Serves her right, it did.”

At the sound of Albus clearing his throat, Draco pulls himself together. They’re safe, at the very least, and it’s not like they’re here without permission.

A nagging feeling makes him certain they’re up to something despite their claims, but he doesn’t push it just yet. The truth will eventually slip out of one of them, and when it does Draco will give them the earful they deserve. He’ll humor them for now.

“It will take more than a weekend,” Draco says, but he’s already pulling his wand out of his sleeve. 

He wordlessly sends the chairs sliding quietly against the floor to stack themselves in the room’s corners. Another flick, and the long table is lifting through the air and resting up against the back wall. The rug rolls itself up, decorative pillars dance to areas unobstructive. 

The tray of sandwiches is Vanished, and Albus makes a noise that clearly betrays his dismay. “The basics,” he says, giving up and walking along the now empty area of the dining room. “All we need is the basics and then we can take it from there.”

Scorpius nods his agreement, following Albus’ lead and spinning along the polished floors. And therein lies the biggest clue: Scorpius can dance perfectly well.

“Why do I feel like they’re up to something?” Potter says, startling Draco. He hadn’t realized him get so close. “A galleon they did a stupid thing and they’ve come here to wait for it all to blow over.”

Draco agrees, but despite that there’s an odd sense of giddy excitement that has his fingers itching to tackle the situation at hand.

He may loathe social gatherings, but he enjoys a good dance. Especially in good company.

“Two galleons they’re only at it to inconvenience us,” Draco says, transfiguring a chair into a gramophone.

“Wouldn’t put it past them.” 

Potter ducks out of the way of a floating box Draco has Summoned, the old dusty thing filled with records he hasn’t listened to since childhood.

With a flick of his wand, the floor to ceiling curtains draw open, tying off neatly to let the bright winter sunlight spill across the intricate markings along the floor. Dust motes float across the air, twirling and dancing to a song that has just begun to play.

Brass instruments break the static quiet of the room, beginning a robust waltz Draco begrudgingly learned to enjoy at the age of five. Created by a Muggle composer, his family’s deep-rooted prejudice had taught him to look down at it with distaste regardless of the rhythmic tap of his foot or the unintentional sway of his shoulders. 

It’s no wonder the Malfoys owned an extensive collection of Muggle records. Much like Dark Objects, there is something inherently taboo about owning things not meant for wizards of their standing. _Things that are shiny, things that are forbidden_ — Draco figures that ought to be the Malfoy motto.

Another flick of his wand charms the song to endlessly repeat.

“Alright then,” Draco says, tucking his wand back into his sleeve. “First things first. Scorpius?” He expectantly holds out his hand, head held high and promptly ignoring the very poor way Potter is trying to hide his smirk.

Scorpius dutifully stumbles over his feet in a hurry, crossing the long floor until he’s standing before Draco. “Always bow as a show of esteem,” he says, hand tucked at his middle as he bows before his father. “Let your partner know that it is an honor to dance with them.”

Satisfied, Draco returns the bow. “Next?”

“A pair of hands in a light clasp, the other rests just below your partner’s arm, or on their shoulder.” Scorpius places his on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco in turn puts his high on Scorpius’ flank.

“I thought it was a hand on the shoulder and the other at the waist,” Potter says while circling the room, hands behind his back as if inspecting their pose. “That’s how we were taught.”

“While I do respect Minerva’s etiquette, it’s horrifyingly simplified,” Draco explains, following Potter with his eyes. “Any self respecting witch or wizard knows better than to be so forward outside of school.”

“You say forward as if holding someone’s waist is lewd,” Albus says, and in the space of a second realizes what it is he’s said. “Never mind, I get it.”

“The two of you won’t be considered children the day of the ball. Within the Ministry’s eyes you will be the fruit of our families’ labor, however negative a notion they might have.” The idea of the press sighting Scorpius and Albus dancing with each other twists his stomach in unpleasant knots. He’s yet to prepare himself for the fallout.

“Just as fair as everything else, I see,” Albus quips, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at a blank space across the room.

Draco hums his answer then clears his throat.

“Now, the secret to a good dance is to have confidence in your ability to do so,” he says, taking a step back and pulling Scorpius with him. “Mind, it doesn’t have to be _genuine_ confidence.”

“Fake it ‘till you make it,” Albus says, disbelieving.

“Basically.” 

Mindful to keep his steps simple, Draco leads Scorpius into an elementary three-step beat. It’s the first they’re ever taught as children, and Scorpius moves with an ease that makes Draco smile in approval.

They silently agree on widening the area of dance, forcing their steps to be farther apart and requiring more fluid movement to make it natural. It becomes increasingly difficult, especially with Draco’s lead and Scorpius’ height.

They manage, however. Perseverance being a Malfoy’s virtue.

Once satisfied that Scorpius remembers his manners and how to lead a decent dance, he pulls them to a smooth stop.

“Simple,” Draco says, stepping away from his son. “Albus?”

Albus blinks up from the contraption he has been fiddling with, confused and suddenly looking very scared. “What?”

Annoyed that the boy had paid no attention, Draco decides to be vexing. “You and Scorpius can take the next dance.” He can barely conceal a smirk. “I’ll correct you as you go.”

“I only watched you dance once,” Albus says. Frantically looking at Scorpius for help while slipping the small, square contraption into his pocket. “Couldn’t even see what your feet were doing.”

Compelled to call bullocks, Draco considers that Albus may be right. While robes add a dashingly dramatic effect to dancing, they’re rubbish when teaching how. Especially his, being as long and heavy as they are.

With a sigh, Draco releases the clasps and removes his robes, sends them floating to hang on a hook by the doorway. He subconsciously tugs at his shirt cuff, paranoid that they may see the faded remnants of the Mark on his arm. Silly, considering the black, thick fabric, but the jittery anxiety is still there. He takes a moment to breathe deep and steel himself, counting up to ten before turning back to his son and guests with a flourish.

“Do as you were taught,” he commands, “but hold each other as I instructed. Fake your confidence if you have to. I’ve heard the Potters are remarkable when it comes to that.”

“Got me farther than you.” Potter’s quip goes ignored.

Draco watches as Scorpius and Albus stand toe to toe, unable to keep silly grins off their faces as they bow and take their positions, Scorpius taking the lead.

“Remember to begin simple. A beat of three will do.”

The beat is simple enough to keep, but surprisingly enough, it’s Scorpius who keeps stepping over Albus’ toes, causing the younger Potter to hiss and glare.

“The two of you can’t lead,” Draco explains, stepping in and correcting Albus’ posture with a touch to his back. “Decide who will do so and try again.”

It doesn’t work.

Potter is as useless as a remembrall, stifling his laughter every time Albus snaps at Draco for one thing or another.

“Maybe if we try to imitate you,” Scorpius says, “it’ll help some? Albus is more of a visual type of learner.” His face is flushed pink, and Draco can’t help but find his blunders endearing.

He thinks for a moment, his own face warming at the realization of what he has to do. “Potter. Dance with me.” To think people have always called him spineless. 

“There isn’t enough Firewhiskey in Britain,” is his instant reply.

“That’s debatable.” When no confidence is to be found, drink it. “Beems, Firewhiskey, please.”

“You’ve gone batty,” Potter says, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “Said so yourself; can’t dance to save my bloody life.”

“All you’ve got to do is follow my lead. I know how impossible you might think that is, but believe me, I’m a delight to dance with.” He pops open the first button of his shirt when it becomes too stifling to properly breath.

“Buggering mental.”

Beems pops up with two bottles of liquid courage and two small glasses, the likes of which Draco fills and hands one over to Potter. “For the nerves.”

Potter’s nostrils flare at that, and he takes the offered glass with a pinched look. “I’m not nervous.”

Knocking back his drink in a single go, Draco relishes the burn as it slides down his throat. With his newfound appreciation for Firewhiskey, he’s kept the bottles at bay at the risk of making a fool out of himself. Or destroying his liver.

Putting down his glass, Draco marches to the center of the floor and bows, fixing Potter with a challenging stare. “Then follow me.”

Feeling brash, Draco holds out a hand as he did with Scorpius, and waits.

An unreadable expression flickers across Potter’s face before it’s gone completely, leaving only the same front he always wore when strutting into the Quidditch pitch. “Fine,” he says, stiffly joining Draco in the middle of the room.

Potter bows and his posture is too rigid, but Draco doesn’t comment on it. It would take a lot more alcohol to get him loose enough for a proper dance but Draco isn’t going to force it. He’s only here to teach, after all.

His resolve wavers when their hands clasp together, when Potter reluctantly places his other one over Draco’s shoulder, and Draco takes his side. A three-point touch that increases the temperature in the room considerably.

Their height difference is much more comfortable, near enough for it to feel natural. But once they break off into the simple three-step he knows they’re both adept at, Potter begins casting fleeting looks towards their feet.

Draco squeezes his fingers, which makes him look up with a mix between annoyance and worry. “Trust me,” he says with a nod, pulling them both into a tight spin. “I won’t let you step on my toes.”

“Your cockiness never seizes to amaze, Malfoy.”

“At least one of us should exude a hint of experience. It most certainly isn’t going to be you.”

“Sod off.”

Draco smirks, taking Potter through the same process he led Scorpius through. He widens their steps, the arches of their spins longer and more precise, and the tosser falls into it with unsurprising ease. Trust Harry Potter to be naturally talented at everything.

“You lead,” Draco says without preamble, switching his hold from flank to shoulder, momentarily throwing him off. “On you go. Sweep me off my feet, oh Saviour.”

Green eyes narrow dangerously, and an answering shiver of desire slides hotly down Draco’s spine.

_Focus._

Now is not the time to let himself be overtaken by undisclosed wants.

Potter proves to be a suitable gentleman, though a mediocre dancer. With his hand strictly where it needs to be, he pulls Draco a bit closer as they draw clumsy circles around the marble floor. Sunlight catches on his glasses, occasionally obscuring his eyes from view, and making his hair shine a few shades lighter.

Even dressed down to a simple jumper and loose jeans, he looks unfairly fit for a man his age. Draco is struck by a wayward hint of envy.

Out of spite, Draco adds in a fourth step, tripping him.

“Do try to keep up, Potter.”

“I’m the one leading. You can’t do that!”

“I just did, and clearly you have no issue with that.”

Potter opens his mouth to argue but then stops, realizing that he’s adapted his moves to fit the extra step without so much a thought. He’s still not happy with the smug expression on Draco’s face, though.

Just to be difficult, Draco adds another step, and then another, forcing Harry to readjust each time and watching him jump back with inexplicable ease. They fall into a dance worthy of the pureblood elite, severe and graceful, elegant and powerful.

Not at all different from dueling.

The last time they were this close, they were their sons’ age, and Draco gripped Potter with soul-crushing terror as they flew from cursed fire.

Now, Draco experiences a similar sort of fear. The man before him burns brighter than anything Draco has ever witnessed, with his mouth twisted in a cocky smile and eyes wide and devouring, piercing through Draco like he could uncover every hidden secret locked away in the vaults of his being with them alone.

He hates it as much as he adores it, being spun around a room like a prince, the respectful dance a ritual akin to worship. He wants nothing more than to pull him closer still, to lay a hand on his waist and claim him. Court him proper, the way his father did his mother. Draco wants to kiss his mouth, feel the scrape of his beard against his neck.

The song ends with a scratch, making them stumble into a graceless halt.

Albus and Scorpius are fighting over the needle, arguing in voices so hushed Draco fails to hear what it is they’re saying. They, too, stop abruptly, looking at Draco and Potter like deer caught in a spotlight.

“Sorry,” Albus offers, dropping the needle and quickly stepping back. “We couldn’t really keep up with you and I didn’t know how else to interrupt?”

Potter jumps back as if scorched, and Draco hopes his fair complexion doesn’t betray any of the embarrassment that currently burns like mad.

“I need another drink,” Potter mumbles, audible only to Draco for standing so close. Never mind that it’s not yet noon.

Draco flexes his fingers by his side, heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. “And that is a proper waltz,” he says weakly.

Scorpius elbows Albus and they both exchange a smile that frays at Draco’s nerves, but he does nothing about it. Instead, he returns his attention to the aborted lesson.

“All you need to do is memorize the first tempo, and you’ll be as good as possibly able before the dance.”

**__________________________**

Four hours later and Harry Potter is rendered useless on the floor, giggling like a madman and trying to hide it behind his hand.

Albus sits on one of the chairs he managed to unstick from the wall, shoes off and rubbing his toes with great sadness.

Scorpius struggles to prepare them tea.

Draco stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed over his chest and severely disappointed at his apprentices. “How will you ever hope to achieve anything when a little hard work and pain is enough incentive to quit?”

Potter barks out a laugh, hands clutched along his middle. “You sound just like Snape, and that’s terrifying, quite frankly.”

Draco huffs, Vanishing what remains of the Firewhiskey Beems has brought them. A bottle in and he was already slightly tipsy, but Potter was downright smashed out of his mind. He considers fetching him a sobering tonic, but figures he deserves whatever hangover might be in store for him.

In the end, at least the boys now stand on more certain ground when it comes to dancing. Even if their amused huffs and puffs at Potter’s expense distracted them all far too much throughout the lesson.

Tea is taken, biscuits are had, and Scorpius escorts the Potters out into the gardens while Draco returns to his rooms to change into fresh clothing for dinner.

There is excitement in him he hasn’t felt in years, putting force behind his footsteps, and a distinct feeling of content laced into each breath he takes. Bone-deep satisfaction creates a private smile he shares with no one but himself as he undresses, letting his clothing carelessly hit the floor as he makes for his closet.

He has always liked dancing, be it with his mother or Pansy Parkinson during his time at Hogwarts. Although it may not grant him the same adrenaline high as Quidditch once did, there is something about contained power being expressed through movement that sets his nerves alight. When done right, there is a hint of delicious intimacy he avidly devours.

Standing in nothing but pants, Draco hums at the low levels of arousal that stands his hairs on end. In the privacy of his rooms is the only time he allows his weakness to take him, the shameful truth that Harry Potter lights more desire in him than his wife ever did, or any other woman for that matter. He doesn’t particularly like what that says about him, but what’s one fault more to hate?

He hesitantly lays fingers over his chest and considers taking a moment to touch himself, to ease the lust sparked the moment Potter put his hands on him, but he doesn’t. Entertaining the idea of a lifelong crush is one thing, acting on it is an entirely different monster, one he’s unwilling to battle.

But it’s so very difficult not to cave in with the way Potter had looked at him, with the intensity of a man about win — _no_. Potter had looked ready to taste, to commit nefarious deeds best left unspoken. Amidst the concentration and triumph, Potter looked ready to bite, to touch, to overtake, to submit.

In a second of blind lust Draco squeezes himself through his pants, feels his knees waver at the instant surge of pleasure the simple touch brings. It’s been so very long.

_No._

If he had been able to curb his deviant desires as a teenager, he can undoubtedly do so now when hormones are no longer a problem.

With a tired sigh, Draco reaches for a relatively simple outfit in shades of gray, and forsakes robes for the rest of the afternoon.

He changes by the window despite the glare of sun over freshly fallen snow, and he can feel the chill emanating from the pane of glass. It isn’t enough to assuage the heat that suffuses him. 

He watches with a keen eye as two heads of dark hair zigzag through the pathway, closer than Draco has ever seen them. He’s glad to know that they’re at least making an attempt to get along.

The pleasantness dies away when a pale head catches up to them, tugging on Albus’ hand in a request to follow.

Draco turns away from the window, the sensation of stones sinking into his stomach making him ill.

**__________________________**

By the time dinner comes around, Draco lingers outside of the dining room. He vibrates with nervous energy, fidgeting with his waistcoat and bouncing on the balls of his feet. Voices drift to him from the other side of the wooden doors, bubbling laughter and louder-than-appropriate rants that never had a place within the walls of the manor.

Everything is different, having changed again, and Draco is out of his league.

He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side, and he’s fearful of finding out.

“Is everything alright, Master Draco?” Beems says, popping up beside him. Her too big eyes gleam at him, and her oversized dress hangs off a near skeletal shoulder. She wrings her hands together and sidles closer.

“A bit nervous is all,” he says without much heat, suddenly feeling weary and longing for sleep.

“Master Draco’s friends are very loud,” she says, peeking through the crack in the door. “Nothing the which the manor has ever seen, no, sir. I would be nervous, too.”

Draco’s laugh is a short burst of incredulity that startles them both, easing the heavy load in his chest. “When did everything change, Beems?”

The house elf shuffles her feet while looking up at him with eerily sharp attention. “Perhaps, Master Draco, when you invited the Potters into your home.” She stops to think for a moment, before nodding. “Is it they that make you nervous, sir? I could escort them out.”

Draco shakes his head. “It’s alright. Thank you.”

The word ‘friends’ lingers at the back of his mind as he pushes open the door, the light from outside nearly blinding him as he does. The dining room has been restored to its original setting, with only a chair missing, the likes of which is still softly playing music from the other side of the room.

“How was the tour?” Draco asks, taking his seat at the head of the table. Potter and Scorpius sit on either side of him, with Albus sitting beside the latter. “I hope the snow did little to sway your opinion of the gardens.”

“They’re beautiful,” Potter says without missing a beat. “I never realized how much land actually surrounded the manor. Is the forest also part of it?”

“Not anymore. I relinquished it to Natural Services once I came into ownership of the estate. Too many beasts roaming about and I didn’t feel like taking responsibility for them.”

“There’s a herd of wild thestrals there,” Scorpius says. “Saw them one evening trodding along the outskirts of the stables. I think they were after the figs we kept for the horses.”

“You saw them?” Potter asks, and Draco picks up on the hint of caution in his tone.

Scorpius nods. “They’re pretty hard to miss, really.”

Draco doesn’t meet Potter’s gaze, choosing instead to serve himself a slice of roast.

“Thank you for having us for dinner,” Albus suddenly says, filling up his plate with the comfort of someone who feels right at home. “The food is always top notch.”

“I’m pleased you all decided to join me,” Draco says, but pauses when he notices how empty it sounds in his own ears. It’s but a mere echo of his father’s faux politeness, a mockery to who Draco truly is.

“Thanks,” he tries again, sinking back into his chair with sagged shoulders. “Thanks for taking the time of day.”

The boys nod their heads, focused entirely on their food. Not that Draco holds it against them. Beems is the best cook the manor has ever seen.

Reaching for his goblet, Draco stops when he notices Potter’s intent stare on him. The upwards tilt at the corners of his mouth is barely visible, but he can recognize a smile when he sees one. 

Snow-damped hair sticks to his forehead, making him look much younger, more full of life than Draco has seen him in a while. No residual anger lingers on his brow, no tension pinches his posture.

It almost looks like he’s _lounging_ , satisfied with the day. As if he’s enjoying what he sees.

With an unsteady hand, Draco brings the goblet to his mouth and takes a healthy swig.

He dare not hope. Not even for a moment.


	8. 07.

For one alarming moment, the astrarium comes to a complete stop.

He hears it before he sees it, the grinding creak of gears coming to a halt, the higher appendages swinging out of control and smashing orbiting spheres into nothing but dust. Jupiter meets a bitter end, and Saturn becomes dislodged from its pedestal, slamming into the ground and rolling into a dark corner of the chamber.

Draco throws up a protective ward over his cauldron before he can react otherwise, quickly darting out of the way of projectile marble and glass.

There’s a rumble, a sharp snap, and from the relative safety of behind his desk, Draco can see it in his mind’s eye as the astrarium collapses.

The probability if this occurring has been overwhelming, with his calculations refusing to bow to the schematics of the machine. He had tried, not for the first time, to bring together Muggle theory with magical application. As expected, the results are catastrophic.

He waits until the dust settles, knees up to his chest, grieving the loss of his favorite astronomical tool. It had been one of the few non-dark things he’d inherited along with the manor, and now it is gone. Funny how that works.

Draco gathers all of the air in his lungs and exhales sharply, trying to send with it the frustration simmering in his skull.

Granted, he already has the coordinates and orbital measurements he needs, _theoretically_. With enough maps, eyewitness accounts, and ancient astronomical tomes, he had been able to map out a rough estimate of when the rock would cut across the Northern Sky.

Two more weeks. Fourteen more days and he will have in his power the most mythical of magical ingredients. _Theoretically_. Then, he can continue on with his Great Work. Hopefully.

He had expected he would be able to track the rock’s movements with the astrarium, but its magic had been too old, too stubborn to accept any modifications Draco attempted to needle in.

Resigned, Draco pulls himself up to his feet and inspects the damage done to the cellar.

It could be much worse, he decides, but there are books on the shelf that will most likely crumble when touched. Even with lack of a flame, the four corners look scorched beyond repair. He’s grateful for the sturdiness of the desk.

The cauldron bubbles away, thankfully unscathed within its dark chamber. It will need to be moved within the next four days.

An hour passes by as Draco Vanishes the catastrophe and then some, leaving the cellar bare but for the cauldron and the desk. Charts, models, books, journal, all gone with the simplest flick of his wrist. Best to be rid of all evidence, especially when he’s memorized it all to the tiniest detail.

**__________________________**

By seven in the evening, someone is at his door.

He doesn’t need Beems to tell him who it is.

“Escort him in,” he tells her from behind his desk. “And could you please bring us tea?”

“Yes, sir, Master Draco.”

He inks his quill and continues working, detailing the list of herbs needed for the process of Separation. He will need to harvest most of these himself under very specific and peculiar methods, but it’s perhaps the easiest step of them all.

Offhandedly, he unclasps his robes, but then does it up again, chastising himself for it.

He looks to the left, and then to his right, and immediately regrets inviting Potter into his study. He debates walking out and locking it, greeting him elsewhere, but the door is already opening with Beems popping in.

“Mr. Potter,” she says needlessly, as if Draco can’t see him standing right behind her.

“Thank you, Beems.”

She goes without sound, leaving Potter to flounder at the doorway.

“Don’t just stand there,” Draco says. “Come in.”

“Right, yes.” He takes one more step inside and then pauses, shuffling his feet. To think him the most feared and respected Auror the Ministry has seen in decades. 

There’s also a bottle in his hand, and Draco wants to mention that alcoholism will not be the answer to their problems.

“How are you?” Potter asks, and Draco nearly rolls his eyes.

“I’m splendid.” He deposits his quill into the blotter and leaves it there, finally granting Potter his full attention. “I’d return the question but seeing as you’re at my house on a Tuesday night with drinks, it’s safe to assume an answer.”

Potter shrugs and finally walks across the study to set the bottle on Draco’s desk. “Rough night.”

“And you wrongly surmised that I want to hear about it.”

“No. Maybe.”

Draco watches him stand there, dressed in his dashing Auror robes and looking like the world might collapse over his shoulders at any given moment. To pity the Boy Who Lived deserves pity in and of itself.

Getting up from his desk, recalling the first time this happened, Draco Summons two glasses and places them on his desk. He uncorks the bottle and pours them a significant amount before handing one over to Potter.

“You’re welcome to sit anywhere you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

Surprisingly, Potter decides to nurse his drink and sit in front of the fireplace without so much a word.

Draco leaves him to it, returning to his parchments and taking an odd sense of pleasure from the quiet company. He only occasionally looks up at him, seeing no change from the slumped posture and glasses that catch the firelight. Interesting how different a man can be when wrought with grief, because despite having lost no one, the look on Potter’s face is the look of man whose world has changed.

Draco can relate.

He’s very well aware of how Harry Potter reacts to feelings such as loss and terror, has seen him take up arms when all hope was lost. Harry Potter has and forever will shine in the face of absolute darkness, unlike Draco. To think that the man would come to him, to the very building that housed and tortured his friends grants the moment a breath of macabre poetry.

He wishes the house would have burned.

“I really did love her,” Potter suddenly says, breaking Draco’s train of thought. “Ginny.”

Out of his depth, Draco wants to ask why in Merlin’s name should he care, but tactfully refrains. Instead, he takes a drink from his glass and sets it back down, briefly debating whether or not to pour it into his nearly cold tea.

“Clearly not enough,” he declares, unsure of what else to say.

“Just…” Potter starts, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just listen, okay? I know you don’t care, but I guess that’s why I want to tell you rather than anyone else.”

Mildly affronted, Draco returns to his work. “Rant away, Golden Boy. Whatever you say will die within these walls, rest assured. Mostly because I don’t give enough of a fuck to repeat them.”

He can feel Potter’s eyes on him, but there’s no real fire behind their shared interaction.

Potter quietly stands and begins to walk around the study, making Draco infinitely nervous. Each artifact in here has been thoroughly catalogued by the Ministry, and he knows that Potter knows, but there’s that lingering anxiety that it just isn’t right.

Over two decades and Draco still fears judgement from Harry Potter. Silly, considering they fought on opposing sides of a war. A war in which Draco’s side lost.

He watches the back of Potter’s head as his fingers touch each of the glass boxes that line the room.

“Someone once told me that the world isn’t split between good people and Death Eaters. That there is both light and dark inside of us, and all that mattered was the part we chose to act on.” 

“Spare me your philosophies.”

Potter shakes his head, moving onto the next display with a pensive frown. “There’s something fascinating about multi-faceted people. Not to mention heart-breaking. I’ve witnessed too many cases where the perpetrator was only acting on what they thought was right. We’ve arrested witches and wizards just because they were inclined towards the Dark Arts, but in the end were completely free of crime.”

Draco continues to write, only paying vague attention to Potter’s monologue. “Saying that I’m not all bad, are you?”

“You’re not bad at all,” Potter says with enough certainty to move the mountains inside of Draco. “I don’t think you know that.”

“Mother once wanted me to visit a Mind Healer after the war. I refused. Guess what I’m about to say next.”

Potter’s laugh is short and quiet, more incredulous than amused. “No therapy from me, I’m shit at it.”

“Good. Now, change the subject before I kick you out.”

“At the risk of being kicked out, let me ask one thing.”

“No.”

“What changed?”

Draco looks up. “What are you on about?”

“One moment you were on like a textbook Lord, sounded more like Lucius Malfoy than the man himself. For a while I thought you just outgrew your mannerisms, but you haven’t.” Potter stands before his desk now, looking down at Draco with a cryptic smile. “Now you’re a slightly nicer version of the Draco Malfoy I knew in school.”

Draco taps his quill against the parchment, desperate to pry himself from underneath Potter’s gaze. He’s nowhere near drunk enough to wear his heart on his sleeve, especially not to sodding Potter. But he does settle for a hint of honesty.

“The Malfoy name rests solely on me, with Scorpius not being of age yet.” He reaches for his tea instead of the Firewhiskey, casting a warming spell on in. “Everyone outside these walls is waiting for me to take a misstep, to say something, to act a certain way, to show any inkling that I’m not well enough to carry on as a free man.” Reheated tea is never a good thing, but the bitter taste is something he doesn’t want ever again. “But you already know that.”

Potter’s nod is delayed, but when it comes, there’s an apology in his eyes that Draco doesn’t want. “I’ve heard the rumors,” he says. “You’ve done nothing to win favors.”

“I don’t want the favor of men desperate to send me to Azkaban, who speak absolute shit about my son.”

“What are you working on?”

The question throws Draco off, but once he realizes how stupid a mistake he’s committed, he can only close his eyes and wish the world would stop spinning for a few minutes.

“Nothing important,” he says, casually reaching for the parchments so carelessly strewn across his desk. “Quelling my curiosity.”

Potter doesn’t answer for a very long time, hesitantly reaching for the rolls of parchment near Draco’s hand.

It isn’t long before the cogs in Potter’s head start functioning, connecting dots and jumping to conclusions that could dismantle his optimistic view of Draco’s moral compass.

But rather than righteous anger, rather than the blank veneer so well known for Aurors, Potter has the audacity to look _sad_.

The crackle of the fire makes Draco twitch in tune.

“A Reversal Stone,” Potter mutters. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m Head Auror for fuck’s sake, I know my way around potentially illegal magic. And yes, it is marked as _potentially illegal_ , despite having been last mentioned seven centuries ago.”

Draco stares down at his blotter.

He had guessed Potter would at least recognize the process of making a Philosopher’s Stone, but never would he have thought the man knowledgeable enough to be able to differentiate between archaic magic. Let alone something so obscure.

“Oh,” is Potter’s next word, and Draco grips his quill hard enough to snap it. “Malfoy…”

“Don’t.”

For a moment he thinks Potter will actually respect his wishes, but how wrong is he.

“You know that no magic will ever be powerful enough to bring Astoria back.”

“Don’t ever speak her name!” Draco isn’t aware of moving, can’t, for the life of him, recall drawing his wand and jabbing it against Potter’s throat. “You don’t get to talk about her!”

Potter holds up his hands. As a sign of peace or to prove he’s unarmed, Draco can’t tell. He doesn’t care to.

“Philosopher’s Stones, Resurrection Stones, none of them can ever bring the dead back to us, Draco. Magic simply can’t do that, even if you create the most powerful substance known to mankind. You can’t.”

Draco’s hands tremble, eyes burning with shameful tears at a reality he refuses to accept. “I won’t know until I try.”

“Then what?” Potter says, nearly a whisper. “Say you bring her back. Then what? Deny her her agency, her sacrifice? What about Scorpius? You and I both know what dealing with time does. We can’t bend it to our wills.”

“A Reversal Stone isn’t a Time Turner.”

“You’re right. Use that stone and you spit on the laws of nature.”

“The laws of nature don’t give a flying fuck about me, why should I give one about them? I am sick and tired of the world taking everything from me, pissing on me for things I didn’t want to do. I am tired. So very tired and if the world insists on demonizing me, then I might as well give them a reason to.”

“Put the wand down, Draco.”

Draco seethes. The rage within him burns hotter than it ever has before, searing and blinding. His bones cannot contain him and he fears he will spark, scorching everything he owns to the ground.

An old voice whispers at the back of his mind, the hissing of a snake that only ever visits him in his darkest of nightmares. It moves his hand, murmurs words wrought with poison, and for one terrifying moment Draco wants to listen.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

The sting of the spell jolts him from the headspace, and he can’t even feel affronted at the sight of Potter gripping both their wands.

Panic closes a fist around his throat. Memories of being wandless for months during his house arrest, of holding Albus Dumbledore at wandpoint with the Killing Curse on the tip of his tongue, of his mother’s passing, of his father’s violent death, of Astoria dying quietly in her sleep with Scorpius sitting by her side.

It’s all too much and if only it were simple enough as turning an Unforgivable upon himself.

“Tell me about Ginny,” Draco forces out. He turns away from Potter to stand in front of the fireplace, fists clenching and unclenching the side of his robes. He desperately searches for air, gulping down uneven sobs that threaten to break him.

The room around him shakes with the intensity of an earthquake, rooting him to the spot with overwhelming fear.

Behind him, he can hear Potter step closer.

“This all started when we got into an argument about how she’s too old to join a professional Quidditch team.”

Amusing, but not enough. “Go on,” he grits out.

A hand hovers near his back but Potter pulls back before he can touch him.

“Honestly, we were just fed up with each other,” he say, sucking in a loud breath. “We, uh, we were young. We went from being students to soldiers and then it all just stopped, it was just us, and we didn’t know what else to do. Suddenly Molly was talking about marriage, with Ron and Hermione already in talks of tying the knot, and Ginny thought marriage was the only thing left for us. So we did it. Got married. Went into jobs that were expected of us, and we hated it. Still do, in fact. But we thought: we’re adults, that’s what adults do. We hate our jobs, live day to day in hopes that a two day break will be enough to do other adult things. No time for fun. No room for silly dreams and aspirations.

“And then one day she stood in front of me and said she didn’t love me anymore, and I didn’t resent her for it, because neither did I. We were friends. Friends who married and had children and there was nothing else to do about it. We loved each other, once, sought shelter in one another, but then it ended. And I hated myself for it because we decided to terminate our matrimony with two teenagers still dependent on us.

“We were both selfish, deciding that our need for freedom came before the stability of Albus’ and Lily’s home. They still have a home. But Albus. We — Ginny and I both love him, I love him with every inch of my miserable soul despite how imperfect he and I are, and I try. I try so fucking hard despite how stubborn he is.

“In the end, I thought he’d rather stick with me because I’m a better cook than Ginny. She thought he’d rather be with her because she’s home more than I am. He rather be with James, or, hell, here, and that’s perfectly fine.”

He finally stops to take a breath, and gingerly puts Draco’s wand down on the desk.

“Also, turns out Ginny met a very lovely woman during her time covering the World Cup in Australia.”

The barrage of information is so much Draco can only cling to that last statement. “What are you implying?”

“Did you honestly think every single person in our graduating class was heterosexual?” Potter laughs nervously. “I would appreciate if you kept that to yourself.”

Draco collapses onto the armchair in front of the fireplace, utterly exhausted. “I suspected as much. All of us marrying and having children seemed statistically improbable.”

“Surprise.”

Finding his footing through rioting thoughts, Draco clenches his fists one more time. He shuts his eyes and counts to twenty, listening intently to the snap and crackle of the fire that warms the front of his legs. “I apologize for my outburst,” he says stiltedly.

“Apology accepted,” Potter says with near palpable relief. “Next time, think better of it.”

“Already anticipating the next time I’ll have my wand pointed at you?” He knows what the words sound like, but he has very little energy to care.

“You know what I mean, wanker. However.” Potter stops, and Draco doesn’t care if he finishes the thought or not. Unluckily, he does. “The comet shard.”

“Is enough to warrant an arrest, I’m aware. But I did not steal the only sample locked away in the Department of Mysteries, and neither have I fully harvested my own. Therefore, you cannot do so.”

“I wasn’t planning to. And why am I not surprised that if anyone could harvest the rarest and most impossible to obtain ingredient in magical history, it would be you?”

“Because I’m bloody brilliant, that’s why.”

Potter stands next to him, also looking into the fire. “I don’t know why I told you all of that, but I wanted to.”

“You think I have it worse, that I’m dealing much better than you are,” Draco says, suddenly aware of the inelegant sprawl he’s rendered in. He gathers himself into a less lazy position, choosing instead to cross he legs at the knee. “That’s why you asked me how I can carry on.”

“But tribulations are relative,” Potter says, finding the fault behind his reasoning. 

Not for the first time Draco wonders if he’s always been this astute, or if the field has truly sharpened his wit. He figures it’s the former, considering Potter was able defeat a dark wizard at the tender age of seventeen.

“I don’t know how I do it,” Draco tells him. “Stating otherwise would be a lie.” He leans his head back against the soft velvet, closing his eyes again and wishing he could sleep for a full day. “Spite, maybe. The need to lessen my son’s burden. The combination of all those things. Could be anything, I just don’t know what.”

“So you’re just as lost as I am.”

“I believe we all are,” Draco says, almost to himself. “None of us really knows what we’re doing. We just hope for the best.”

The rustling of clothing makes Draco open his eyes in time to see Potter removing his robes to drape them over the divan. He takes the moment to appreciate the man’s back, the wide set of his shoulders, and the subtle curve of his hips. He masochistically allows himself the fantasy of undressing him, just to see the collection of scars he must have, both old and new.

“You sometimes make sense,” Potter says, breaking the spell. “It’s a nice change of pace.”

“I’m glad that I’m less of an enigma than you thought me to be.”

He settles into the seat next to Draco’s and drinks. “I’m glad you’re less of a tosspot than I thought you to be.”

“Quaint.”

After another long bout of silence, Potter makes to speak but doesn’t. Draco can almost hear him thinking, but he doesn’t push. He’s had enough difficult subjects for one day.

“The comet shard,” he says once more, more thoughtful than accusing. “It’s supposed to be the most powerful piece of magic in history.”

“A rock that’s tasted the fires of at least three different stars,” Draco adds, understanding completely the wonder in Potter’s voice. “Believed to be a myth. So rare that it doesn’t even have a name.”

“Did it occur to you that just established the orbit of a comet that only comes across our skies once… what? Every five hundred years? Six hundred?”

“Muggle scientists would wet themselves for that discovery.”

“You should write about it. Get your name on a textbook.”

“My name’s already on textbooks. Magical History of Complete Idiots, if I’m not mistaken. I bet Minerva keeps a copy of it in her office.”

Potter snorts. “At least name it.”

Draco considers it. “Perhaps Scorpius will once he goes to his Muggle university. Perhaps he’ll expand on my research, adapt it into Muggle terminology.”

“That would be very nice of him.”

“Yes.”

“Albus mentioned you becoming quite adept at chemistry and physics.”

“Too much time on my hands,” Draco says wryly.

It feels like Potter will say something else, but he doesn’t. Instead, they sit in silence for what feels like hours, until the fire finally goes out, and the sun begins to rise.


	9. 08.

He can bring her back. 

In the end, that’s all that really matters. That he can, that the power is within hands’ reach and all he need do is take it. Re-write the tragedy, give it a much better ending than the one they’ve been granted.

The victory is close enough to taste, but it is bitter and stale.

Magic can never revoke death.

At best, this is a gamble that will allow him to change the outcome of Astoria’s illness. He can buy them all time, hire a better Healer, a Curse Breaker, resort to unspoken magic, if need be. He’s done so this far, what’s one more fault in his already awful repertoire?

Scorpius could have his mother back, the only person other than Draco to love him so unconditionally. If not for him, then he’ll commit one more unforgivable act for his son.

Draco etches the runes onto the floor by hand. No magic is to be involved in the setup of or else cancel the inherent properties of the comet dust. It’s a grueling process, terribly time consuming, but he perseveres. It’s the only thing he can do.

The open book he copies from whispers, and unnerved he closes it. Pushed away, he relies instead on his memory to copy each sigil, line, and circle. Careless, yes, but better than the constant distraction of words he doesn’t want to hear. Words that, arguable, may be coming from his own mind rather than ancient books dripping with dark magic.

He can do this, but should he really violate the sacrifice Astoria made? 

Ten years. She could have had ten more years on this miserable Earth with him. Instead she chose to give him a child.

_You’ve been lonely far too long, Draco._

The words still linger in the back of his head, as raw as she had spoken them.

He could have stopped her. He should have tried harder. But in the end kisses had overwhelmed him, whispers of _just close your eyes and feel_ had drowned him, and he rested his head on the pillows and shut his eyes. 

He should have known that Astoria would give them her ten years.

_Could you really rob her of her agency?_

Stupid Potter and his unwanted advice.

Stupid Potter and his kindness, his compassion, his humanity.

Draco has to place both hands in front of him or else fall forward. His knees sore from kneeling so long he considers retiring for the evening, but the letter on his desk keeps him here. Penitent.

_Let me treat you to dinner. How does Friday sound? Meet me at the Emporium at seven._

**\- H.P.**

One of the sigils is crooked, so he redraws it again and again, until the heel of his hand has rubbed raw against the cold stone floor.

To think that friendship could be a possibility between him and Potter is a joke bigger than the one of his existence. They will always find something to fight about. Wands will always be drawn, shoved into the other’s throat in the heat of the moment. Two sides of a coin that can never see itself face to face. What they have between them, this shaky ground of an acquaintanceship, is not and will never be sustainable.

But a traitorous bit of his heart asks him why. There is no harm in trying.

Weakness and other variations of the idea is the only answer he can come up with. Vulnerability. Draco cannot allow himself any more exposure than he’s already surrendered. Potter has sat in his study, sifted through his work, stood before his fire, weighed Draco’s heart on a balance along with a feather.

He wonders if Potter would destroy it, given the chance. Would he drive a basilisk’s fang through it, or guard it as he’s done with those precious to him?

Exhausted, Draco decides to ease the burden on his knees and sits back, stretching his legs across the floor. He numbly looks down at his work, at the years it has taken for him to reach this point, and wonders if he will feel as strongly about it once the grief grows quiet.

He briefly considers what other ways he could busy his time with, to help him think of things unrelated to the constant theme of death and loss that surrounds him like a cloak. Besides, with his lack of interest in everything outside the manor’s walls the Malfoy vaults will be bled dry in a matter of decades.

A career at the Ministry is out of the question. Even with someone as willing to grant second chances as Granger, he doesn’t need to constant scorn he knows will become a part of his daily routine along those halls.

The Auror department can go fuck itself.

He has no natural talent for any sort of healing.

He’s too old for Quidditch.

The only thing he’s adept at this day in age is theoretical research with hands-on experimentation. A teaching post at Hogwarts sounds the most plausible, be it Potions or Astronomy. But he sincerely doubts Minerva will let him anywhere near the Astronomy Tower, not that he’d like to be reminded of crimes almost committed everytime he opens his mouth to teach.

The idea of walking Hogwarts’ corridors once more, this time with nothing to fear or dread, fills him with a distinct sense of longing.

His chest constricts, painful pangs against his ribs making him feel heavy.

It’s become increasingly easier to calm himself whenever he gets overwhelmed, but it never feels so when it all starts. When his throat closes up and limbs go stiff, all he can see is a black hole at the center of his vision. As if a Dementor were in the room with him, he feels like he will never be happy again.

He sits still until the waves pass, until the wall pressing down on his back lifts and he’s left with nothing but more of that unending well of hopelessness.

The distant ticking of the clocks ground him to the here and now, reminding him that he is alive and in the comfort of his home. There is no one on the other side of the door. There are no snakes coiled in wait. No father waiting for him with a walking stick.

Deciding that it’s enough for one day, he pushes himself up on unstable legs and leaves the room, casting lazy locking spells on his way out.

He slowly climbs his way up into the living area Scorpius so loves, with its wide windows and comfortable chairs, and drops himself on the bench before the grand piano.

It had been an impulsive purchase given his lack of musical talent, but Draco had slowly taught himself how to play it over the years. His mother would take to knitting in the same room while he practiced, chiming in with the occasional word of praise when he’d make sounds other than dying animal noises.

The black surface is as shiny as it had been when it was first brought in, no doubt kept so thanks to Beems’ constant care. Were it up to him, it’d have years of dust collected over every inch.

Lifting the protective cover over the keys, Draco lightly runs his fingers over the cool ivory.

He tests a handful of notes and is satisfied to find that it is still perfectly tuned, as if he’d only played it yesterday for the last time, rather than six odd months ago.

He recalls the times Astoria would sit with a newborn Scorpius cradled in her arms, his crying calmed by simple notes of a lullaby Draco would play for them. 

He remembers a two year old Scorpius running up to him, terrified of the lightning storm wreaking havoc just outside the walls of their home. Draco had rested him on his hip, hushing him with soft words and singing him a song made up on the spot. It had been silly, didn’t quite rhyme, but Scorpius had eventually calmed enough to fall asleep with his head on Draco’s shoulder.

Flexing his fingers, Draco tries playing a simple song. He misses a note, and begins again. His knuckles ache and his palm burns, but not enough to deter him.

It takes him several tries to get back the same fluidity he was able to play with back then, with eyes closed and completely surrendered to the lull of his music. He falls back into a familiar song, evoking memories thought long lost.

He can bring her back, but are his reasons good enough?

**__________________________**

“All for nothing, really,” Draco says, taking a sip from his pint before placing it back down on the table. “Demoines still forfeited, and I became three hundred galleons richer.”

Potter has yet to stop laughing at the misfortune of Draco’s old acquaintance, even as their appetizer grows cold between them. “Something tells me you rigged it.”

“Did not.” Draco leans back in his chair, the hand on the table fiddling with his silverware. “Contrary to what you might think, I like to win fair and square. It asserts just how much better I am than my opponent.”

“Of course you do. Of course it does.”

“Think I’m lying, do you?”

“Oh, shut up and drink your beer,” Potter says with mock offence. He’s still smiling, apparently enjoying his evening. “How’s research coming along?”

“Splendid.”

“The sarcasm is scathing.”

“I just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright.” Potter reaches for his own pint, looking thoughtful. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Do I have to remind you that it was you who dragged me out tonight? Not the way other way around. I could care less what we talk about. Just not that.”

Nodding, Potter concedes with a wave of his hand. “The boys are dropping by again tomorrow, yes?”

“It would be the last lesson before the ball.”

“Good, because I have a favor to ask.”

Draco narrows his eyes then, interest peaked. “Comfortable enough to be in my debt, I see.”

Potter, damn him, carelessly bites his bottom lip. “Turns out the Ministry actually is hosting a double event. Some sort of Christmas party, apparently, aside from the charity event being held at Hogwarts. Turns out the boys were telling the truth after all.”

“That’s definitely new,” Draco says.

“Hermione insists I go. Says it’ll do right by me. Personally I think it’s complete rubbish and people are going to be disappointed when they interact with me.”

“You do have a painfully droll personality.”

“I was thinking,” Potter marches on, unfazed by Draco’s quip, “maybe you could give me a couple of pointers on how not to make a complete idiot out of myself.”

Draco continues to stare at him, even when their server brings their meal. “You’re taking the piss.”

Potter shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t know anyone else qualified for rushed etiquette lessons.”

“I’ve already taught you how to dance. More or less.” Even as he says this, he transfigures the shakers, napkins, and centerpiece on the table into a proper set of utensils usually presented at grand dinners. He promptly sets them up on either side of Potter’s plate. “I might as well.”

Draco explains in the simplest terms how to navigate through each fork, spoon, and knife, what to do with the napkins they come settled on, and how to properly sit without looking like a disgruntled teenager. 

They manage it all between bites and amused remarks, with Potter being exceptionally mouthy by insisting he didn’t intend to start right this second. Drinks replenished and Draco frantically waving his hand when Potter picks up the wrong fork for the fourth time, they ease back with small bouts of laughter cutting the impromptu lesson short.

“We’ll continue to refresh your memory up until the function. I’m sure you won’t remember half of what I told you by morning.”

“You’re not wrong.” Potter chews a bit of his steak and waves his fork (the correct one) around as he speaks. “And the whole handshaking business. And small talk, but I guess that’s an ability you’re born with, or gets hammered into you since you’re a kid.”

“Communication skills can be learned. I’m sure you don’t need any. You like barging in with your heart on your sleeve and nothing but blatant honesty,” Draco says, letting his disapproval be known. “It makes you likeable.”

“It also makes me rude. The Minister for Magic would prefer I weren’t rude.”

“I’m sure it’s in her nature to forgive you your tresspasses.”

“You’d be surprised. Hermione is downright terrifying if things don’t go her way. Like the time Ron decided to leave the Department in order to settle into the shop. Mind, she eventually came around, but those first couple of months? Scarier than any wannabe dark wizard.”

“I doubt she’d be that defensive if you accidentally used a salad fork on your steak.”

“You’d be downright offended.”

“Well, yes, but I’m me.”

“You mean a pureblood.”

Draco doesn’t answer to that, instead busies himself with his own cut. “I’ve never formally apologized to her, or to Weasley,” he says, mostly thinking aloud. “I was a full-on wanker to them.”

“And to everyone else, yeah,” Potter so helpfully adds.

The food goes sour in his mouth.

Instead of continuing the conversation, Draco focuses on the restaurant around them. The dark wood and bronze accents are tasteful, resembling a weathered mountain lodge. Tartans in darker shades of green lay draped along shelves and wine racks, occasionally fluttering like settling birds.

Potter resorted to signing his name in order to get them a relatively private area near the back, where patrons can’t easily come across their table.

Their table is near a fire, and it’s warm enough that they have both shed their traveling cloaks. Potter is dressed smart yet casual, with a turtleneck jumper the color of blood and black trousers. He looks to have attempted to tame his hair to no avail, and while inspecting him, Draco spots a new scar along his freshly shaven jawline.

Draco, on the other hand, opted for his simplest of suits. It’s a touch Muggle, but he figured Potter would appreciate it.

“You know I’ve forgiven you,” Potter says, so suddenly it brings heat to Draco’s cheeks when realizing that he’d been staring. “A lot of us have.” His tone is quiet, genuine, and the air becomes far too thick. “Perhaps you should look into forgiving yourself, too.”

A slap would have shocked him less.

Like having him spit on his shoes, Draco grows indignant. That Potter would even begin talking about things such as forgiveness where Draco is concerned, as if he knew what he did and didn’t deserve. That he would have the gall to even assume he knew him well enough, that he could reach in without permission.

To forgive himself is to accept that it was all right in the end, that it was a mistake as simple as misplacing a wand. His inaction caused the lives of people he loved and hated, all lives that rest solely on his shoulders. Although he may have never cast a Killing Curse, he should have well done so.

“Draco?”

The name comes second to this attention, the first thing being the hand that rests over his. 

The caress is like water over a blazing wound.

It’s only then that he realizes he was about to leave the table, that Potter stopped him from doing so with as little as a barely-there touch.

“Please don’t leave,” Potter says, gently, as if talking to a cornered animal. “I’m sorry. I was out of line.”

“You were,” Draco grits out awkwardly, looking down at their hands in an attempt to avoid eye contact. “You are.”

To his surprise, Potter doesn’t let go. His rough fingers sink into the soft skin of Draco’s hand, pinning him with a single point of contact.

The realization settles slowly, like the swell of the sea climbing ever higher within the cavity of his chest. As soft as the touch is there is an underlying feeling of power that tugs at Draco’s heartstrings. It is static, alive, and breathtakingly aweing.

“We can’t,” Draco says, the scales finally falling from his eyes. 

He could be wrong. He could be projecting, seeing things the way he wishes they were. If he is wrong, he will crumble to dust.

Suddenly, he’s eleven years old, and he’s certain of the friendship he hopes for but will be denied.

He’s twelve, and he hopes this mess of a boy won’t be eaten by trolls.

Thirteen, and he’s desperate to impress the Boy Who Lived.

He’s fourteen, and he’s jealous of the way he looks at Cedric Diggory.

Fifteen, and he fumes over the rumors of Harry Potter kissing Cho Chang.

Sixteen, and he’s wishing he has the time to cruelly shove him, to stare at him across their house tables in the Great Hall.

Finally, he’s seventeen, and he’s drowning. He’s terrified and alone, with the weight of a dark future on his shoulders. There is nothing but death, nothing but survival, and nothing but the passing thought of the boy who will have to die, the boy Draco Malfoy had dreamed about kissing one too many times.

To accept that he’s been in love with Harry Potter from the beginning is too great a truth, too shameful a fact, too hateful a reality.

“What?” Potter’s eyebrows crease, but the firm line of his mouth speaks louder than the single word.

Draco searches desperately for something to say, something to diffuse a situation he cannot control, but fails. There is nothing but cold longing, a pitiless lure he frantically tries to reach for despite how far out of his reach it is.

“We can’t,” he says again, and tries to pull away.

The hand clenches over his, fingertips digging into his skin like anchors.

The mask of ignorance falls, and in its place is one of frustration. This is a look Draco has seen Potter wear during exams and on tabloid photography. It’s annoyance, irritation, and Draco welcomes it. Hateful emotions he can deal with. Spiteful words are something he can reciprocate.

“Who else is there left to hide from?” Potter asks, sharp and demanding. The question cuts as merciless as a knife.

“Congratulations, Potter. You’ve finally lost it.”

“Would you just listen to me?”

“No,” Draco snaps, yanking his hand free and getting up from the table. “There is nothing you could say that would interest me regarding matters of... whatever _this_ is.”

Potter sighs, pressing down on his temples as if to stave off a headache. “Fine. Fine, I said I was sorry. Now, sit back down before dinner goes cold.”

“I think I’ve had enough for one night, thanks.” Draco pulls his cloak over his shoulders and fastens it, his back to Potter. “I make a point at avoiding familiarity with people who insist on making choices for me.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“It sure as Merlin sounded like it,” Draco almost yells before catching himself. Even in the privacy of their niche, people can hear. “Fuck off, you sanctimonious prick.”

Potter’s hands slam onto the table as he shoots up to his feet, coming around to face Draco with a stormy expression.

Draco readies himself, unafraid to throw the first punch if it comes to it. Instead he’s met with a hand fisted in front of his robes and a yank forward.

He pauses at that, thoughts scattering away when Potter pushes their mouths together in a featherlight touch. Fingers press against the side of Draco’s jaw, disabling every ounce of fight in him.

Draco instinctively reaches out, grabbing Potter by the shoulders and walking him backwards until they collide with the nearest wall. He leans down for more pressure, for more contact, for more of that softness that reaches into him and spreads like warm light.

Each brush of lips draws a gasp from their mouths, timid and hesitant, as Potter’s hands move to rest over Draco’s chest, making idle patterns over his robes while simultaneously pulling him closer. Draco sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, lightly pinched between teeth, and Potter’s reaction makes arousal kick wildly below Draco’s belt.

They step closer to each other, forgetful of where they are.

One more kiss and they part, foreheads knocked together as they breathe each other’s air. Potter looks incredibly lovely, with dimmed eyes glistening bright in the firelight and kiss swollen lips parted in an invitation for more. Draco wants to drink everything from those lips, feel them on every inch of him.

“That was nicer than I expected,” Potter whispers to him, pressing their mouths into a not-quite-kiss. “Are you good at everything you do?”

The question comes in the form of a rasp, and Draco can only purr his response. “You’re welcome to find out for yourself.”

Potter bites his own lip at the proposition, reaching past Draco’s line of view to idly play with his hair. He can feel it come loose, the snap of his hair tie close to his ear. Fingers smoothly run through it, following until its end at Draco’s mid-back.

“Your hair’s so long,” Potter says around a laugh, leaning up for yet another kiss. He can feel a hint of stubble despite his otherwise clean face. “You look a lot like your father.”

Mood killed, Draco pulls away with a tired sigh. “There are other ways of saying you hate it.”

“I don’t necessarily hate it,” he tries, tracing his knuckles along what little is exposed of Draco’s neck. “It’s very… strange. On you. A defining Malfoy trait.”

Draco shuts him up with yet another kiss, before quickly pulling away. “This is stupid.”

“Kissing in the dark corner of a restaurant?”

“All of it.” He settles for stroking Potter’s side while they speak in hushed tones, weary of being caught _infraganti_.

“Bit of an understatement, there. Two months ago I thought I was mostly straight.”

Draco pinches him, which makes Potter jump. “If you called yourself straight all this time then I do question your ability to analyze yourself.”

Hands continue to roam and explore, and Draco forcefully ignores the eventual disaster that awaits them once they part. 

This can’t work. It never will. No matter how much both crave it, how hard they fight for it, there will always be that chasm between the Malfoys and the Potters. The Savior and the Death Eater.

“Ron once mentioned man-crushes being a thing. He had one on Viktor Krum, if I recall.”

“Weasley didn’t stalk Krum throughout an entire school year.”

Whatever it is Potter means to say stumbles out in a stutter before he thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. Draco never thought he’d consider a mumbling man endearing, but here he is. He also never expected to have Harry Potter in his arms, kissing him coyly, but the universe has a very strange sense of humor.

“Unfair,” Potter eventually manages, cheeks turning a mesmerizing pink.

Cradling his face, Draco takes one more deep breathe as he nods. He wants the moment to stretch on endless, to feel like he deserves to be loved, to embrace the need to worship on his knees with hands and mouth. He wants Potter to be his.

His heat is alluring. The smell of Firewhiskey strong along his neck. His hands are calloused, so very male, and Draco hates how much pleasure he derives from that fact.

“We can’t,” he says a third time, reluctant to pull away.

“Tell me why. Please tell me why.”

“Not until you tell me why you’re so desperate to have me.”

Green eyes flutter shut, dark lashes resting over full cheeks. This close, the features of his face are a wonder to take in.

“I don’t know why,” Potter says, eyes still closed. “It was the strangest thing. One moment you’re just Malfoy, same git I was acquainted with at school.” He presses his fingers over Draco’s mouth. “Then you weren’t.”

“I’m fairly certain I’m the same insufferable shit you knew back then.”

Smiling, Potter nods. “True, but there’s something different.”

“Is it the hair?”

“It’s in the way you spoke to Albus.”

Startled by the statement, Draco tries to step away, but Harry pulls him in again.

“There is kindness to you, Draco. Despite what you might think, what you like to believe. You have a heart perfectly capable of feeling love, unwilling to tame it. You’re a force of nature when you want to be, and who you were no longer defines you.” Harry stills for a moment, shaking his head around a quiet laugh. “Something about that gets to me. You’ve always been able to get under my skin with the simplest things, and this is no different.”

Draco doesn’t want to believe him.

He wants to retreat into the Manor with nothing but its silence for comfort.

At the center of it all, he just can’t bear another heartbreak.

“I still can’t make the right choices. Not whenever you’re involved,” he says, extricating himself from Harry’s arms. “The boys.”

Harry finally looks up at him, confused, before it finally dawns on him. “To think you’d hold your son to more esteem. I’m sure Scorpius wouldn’t be opposed to his father seeing another man.”

Draco stares at him, dumbfounded. Sometimes he does worry about Harry’s ability to properly read into a situation. “Haven’t you realized just how invested they are in each other, you oaf?”

“Are you joking? It’s as if you’ve completely erased the incident in fourth year from your mind. Of course I’m aware of how much those two adore each other. Albus cares more about Scorpius than he does about Lily, if we’re being completely honest.”

Point completely missed once more, Draco returns to the table and downs the last of his pint.

Harry remains pressed to the wall, looking completely ravished, and it’s doing horrors to Draco’s health.

He considers ordering another drink.

“Did it ever occur to you that their feelings may be romantic?”

The words have the desired effect, and there is a deep sense of sadistic satisfaction at seeing Harry go from confused to shocked to mildly ill.

“Oh.”

“Now do you understand why we can’t?”

“I…” Harry looks directly at him for long moments before turning towards the fire, jaw clenched so tightly Draco can see the bone structure shift with the pressure of it. He remains frozen for a very long time, as if the mere act of breathing could break him. “Fucking hell.”

Draco nods his head, suddenly at a loss of what to do with himself.

As a last resort, he adjusts his robes and leaves enough to cover the bill. Without so much a word, he turns on his heels and walks out of the restaurant with his dignity in shreds.

In the long run, Draco Malfoy just isn’t allowed to have nice things.


	10. 09.

“This is what we do: we come in, best dressed. Right? We ask Professor McGonagall to dance and Scorpius sweeps her off her feet! Slytherin would definitely get at least fifty points for that great service.”

“Why do I have to be the one to dance with her?”

“Because you’re the best at it, duh.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“He’s right.”

“Don’t be so helpful, Lily.”

Lily harrumphs, arms crossed over her chest. “I’m trying to help you two out. Unless you want Gryffindor to completely obliterate you. Again. For the seventh year in a row.”

“I’m pretty sure Gryffindor has been taking the House Cup since the nineties,” Draco adds, unhelpfully, as he nudges her feet into a proper stance. “Now, you focus on where Harry steps. Boys, shut it.”

Albus and Scorpius say something to themselves behind Draco’s back, which has them giggling like a couple of first years. Draco refrains from tripping them with a jinx, choosing to act like an adult instead.

With the music starting anew, Draco walks the floor of his dining room, quietly assessing the waltz Harry and Lily are currently trying to dance to. When he had agreed to one more lesson before the ball, he hadn’t expected an extra Potter at his doorstep. It’s a welcome surprise, however, because Lily is nothing but an endless source of amusement.

Her running commentary on just about everything is enough to lift even the saddest of spirits.

“Miss Lily,” Draco calls across the room, hands at his back as he tries to ignore the boys huddled by the gramophone. “Anyone lucky enough to call you a date for the ball?”

Harry looks taken-aback, then positively murderous at the idea as she simply shrugs.

“Now, Harry,” Draco says in the most condescending tone he can properly muster. “I believe you had a date for the Yule Ball back in Fourth Year.”

“Yeah, well, that was different.”

“Really? How so?” Harry glares at him, but Draco snaps his fingers, completely unfazed. “Pay attention. You’ll step on her toes if you don’t.”

Teasing aside, they manage a bit of a graceful stumble, Lily moving with far more ease than her brother. She’s also a quicker learner than her father. She twirls with elegant energy, all brilliance and grace, and Draco can see the pride that bursts from Harry as they bow once the song comes to an end.

They bow once more when a round of applause erupts from the boys, and Lily bounces in place.

“You’re a good teacher,” she tells Draco at one point, when they’ve stopped for tea and sandwiches at midday. “A little rough around the edges, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Draco thanks Beems once she pops in with a refill, Scorpius and Albus going through the sandwiches like the world is about to end. “How’s your mother?”

“She’s fine,” Lily says, doing a good job at hiding her surprise at the question. “Got herself a nice flat in London, smaller than dad’s place. A lot brighter, too.”

Draco nods his head and looks away when her gaze becomes insistent, almost as if she could see the transgressions he and her father recently committed. “And Quidditch?” he weakly deflects.

Unimpressed but willing to cooperate, she concedes. “Not my thing. It’s fun, but I’d rather spend my time brewing.”

“A knack for Potions.”

“Even if Slughorn is incredibly dull.”

Draco smiles. “That old bat should retire already. His classes were always bloody abysmal.”

“Honestly! He invited me to join the so called Slug Club, and I told him he could shove it. I’ve got no time for his elitist rubbish.”

“Your dad was a member.”

“Exactly my point.”

Draco’s smile forms into a grin, delighted.

“What are you smiling about?” Speaking of the Devil, Harry looms over them with a puzzled glare. “The world has everything to fear when you two are amused by the same thing.”

“Lily seems to share a very common interest in Potions,” Draco says. “And a very common dislike of Slughorn.”

Harry’s grimace is a sight to behold. “I figured he’d retire by now, but I’m guessing he’s doing his best to embarrass everyone in the Potter line.”

“It’s a good thing I’m the last one,” Lily says, jumping to her feet and brushing invisible dust off her trousers. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a brother to torment.”

They watch her skip off, and Harry promptly takes the seat she’s just vacated. He plucks a sandwich from the tray and serves himself another cup of tea, all the while keeping his eyes on the tiny glass cat at the center of the small table Draco decided to keep in the room.

“You said you’d offer pointers,” Harry says, clearing his throat.

“That was before we snogged,” Draco shoots right back, mostly on defensive instinct.

Harry’s cheeks color, and Draco is satisfied.

“It was some damn good snogging.”

“I would appreciate it if we don’t talk about it while our children are in the room.”

“Meaning, it’s fine to do so when they’re not in the room?”

“Potter, I swear on my name that I will Obliviate you if you keep being this insufferable.”

Harry smirks, and there’s an alarming amount of confidence in the look. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“I wouldn’t have you _any_ way, actually.” Draco answers with a frown, irritated that Harry seems to have completely forgotten about their dilemma. 

His flirtations are in no way discreet, his touches bold and unnecessary, doing nothing but setting Draco on edge. Never mind that he’s started referring to Potter as _Harry_ outside of his head, which earned him a handful of inquisitive looks, but thankfully nobody brought it up.

“I’m curious,” Harry says, unabashedly staring at Draco’s mouth as he speaks. “Were _that_ not a problem… you know…” he vaguely inclines his head to gesture at Albus and Scorpius where they stand, being picked on by a redhead that doesn’t quit. “Where do you think you and I would have gone?”

“St. Mungos. Or Azkaban. Or both.”

Harry sighs. “I’m serious.”

“It’s not worth dwelling on,” Draco reminds him, pointedly avoiding looking over at their kids.

He’s beginning to see why Albus resents Harry so much, and in a bout of empathy, Draco cannot blame him in the slightest. To think that the Golden Boy would be this much of a selfish arse. It makes Draco feel insurmountably better about himself.

But Harry is smiling at him in a way that is terribly puzzling. It’s not exactly sad, or confident. More like knowing, and it serves to irritate him all the more.

“Be my Plus One,” he blurts out without preamble, setting down his tea. “For the Ministry function.”

Draco gapes at him but recovers quickly, reminding himself that Malfoys, under any circumstances, _do not gape_.

“Are you mad?”

“Partially. Never been the same since that one time I died.”

“Absolutely not. Never.” Draco looks down at the tray, then back up at Harry. “I refuse to even be considered your date.” He looks down again, wishing he could fling the entire thing into a wall. “Unlike some, I have something called standards.”

“Be sensible here, Draco,” Harry says, and he drags out his name in a way that sets the butterflies in his stomach fluttering. “Not necessarily as a date. When’s the last time you’ve been to some sort of opulent affair?”

“I doubt anyone would want to make small talk with me.”

“Which is perfect. That means no one will approach me with you hanging on my arm.”

“You’re shit at making me feel better,” Draco says, aggressively ripping a triangular sandwich in half. “And I do not _hang_ on anyone’s arm.” He sighs. “The utter drivel people would say. With the Prophet at both Hogwarts and the function, they’ll know. Both our families would be shunned.”

Softly shaking his head, Harry touches Draco’s knee. It’s a fleeting touch, gone before it’s even registered, but it’s enough to quieten the storm swiftly brewing.

“You worry too much.”

“Someone has to.”

“Alright,” Harry says, getting up from the chair and brushing crumbs off his jumper. “You can just say no if you don’t want to go.”

“Go where?” Scorpius interrupts, startling both of them. “Is something wrong?”

The stress in his tone has Draco shaking his head before he can think better of it. “Just an attempt at dragging me into a social affair.”

“The Parkinsons?”

“The Ministry,” Draco corrects, as he too gets up and adjusts his robes.

“Why wouldn’t you go?”

Draco nearly glares him, feeling betrayed by his own son. “I don’t feel like it.”

“That’s hardly an excuse,” Harry says, apparently having claimed their collective children as a posse. “I say it’s time the Malfoys are reintroduced to wizarding society. Don’t you think so, Scorpius?”

“I don’t think—”

“They should be,” Albus chimes in, patting Scorpius on the shoulder and giving Draco a blinding grin. He looks far taller, and lankier, than when he lost saw him. “After years of restoring the name, I think the Malfoys need to take the next step.” The proclamation is loud, almost forced, and Draco is immediately suspicious.

“What do you know about social politics?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Albus says, but shrugs nonetheless. “But a party’s a party, and someone needs to be there to save dad from complete humiliation.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, son.”

“Don’t mention it.”

The four of them look at Draco expectantly, and it’s only then that he realizes that he’s missed something very important. Some sort of inside joke he isn’t privy on. Or, something else entirely. Whatever it is, he’s never seen this specific set of people so adamant about something involving him.

“Whatever it is you are up to, stop it right now.”

They all have the gall to look offended, which is comical in its own way.

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, resisting the urge to crack the joints of his fingers under the uncomfortable attention. “I’ll be your Plus One if only to save Wizarding Britain from the embarrassment of having to entertain a hippogriff like you. We can continue our etiquette lessons while these three continue their dancing.”

They come to an agreement without a fuss, but Draco spots his mistake the moment Scorpius turns to him with an intrigued smirk that is much more Potter than Malfoy. “Etiquette lessons?”

“Harry requested them,” Draco says, lamely, when Albus and Lily also turn to him with equally scandalized looks. Mortified, he tries to backtrack. “During dinner, he…” he stops before waddling deeper into the trap he’s set up for himself. “Clearly you three are also in need of said lessons.”

Lily is the first to turn away, eyebrows raised. But it’s Albus and Scorpius that exchange a look that makes Draco want to disappear into the woodwork. Behind him, Harry is all but useless.

“Dinner? Lessons?” Albus is bold enough to push, his tone rudely playful. Draco has half a mind to demand Harry fix his son’s incorrigible behavior but stops himself before getting any deeper into this pile of nonsense. “Is there anything we should know?”

“We’ve come to tolerate each other,” Harry eventually says, saving them all the trouble. “I know we should have told you, but it just… happened.” His overly dramatic tone makes Draco roll his eyes, but he feels infinitely grateful for Harry’s interference. “To think that a Malfoy and a Potter could be friends.”

“Gee, who would have ever thought that possible,” Scorpius says, deadpan. “Completely unheard of.”

“Off with you,” Draco say, shooing them off. “Time’s ticking, and you’ve only got one more day until you’re on your own.”

The two of them scuttle off to join Lily by the gramophone, talking animatedly in low voices.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry says, picking up one more sandwich. “You don’t usually trip up so easily around people.”

“I make a point to be as honest to Scorpius as possible, which makes it incredibly difficult to choose the right words on the fly.” He’s surprised by his own candid explanation. “Especially in the presence of people outside the family.”

“You’ve always been private.” Harry sounds understanding, and pushes no further. “I still remember which utensil is for what. What’s next?”

Grateful for the subject change, Draco leads them away into an adjoining room. It’s a significantly smaller, scarcely furnished parlor with a small table resting at the center and two armchairs on either side. He had set it up before having left for the restaurant, and didn’t have it in him to dismantle the setup after getting back.

His own warnings echo endlessly within him, reminding him to keep his hands to himself. Propriety and decorum are the pillars with which proper wizarding families build their foundation on; the Malfoys being the epitome of impeccable manners. That Harry Potter only need bite his plush bottom lip to destroy Draco in the lewdest way imaginable is an insult he must put an end to.

“After giving it some thought, I figured we could work on a certain niche of social graces.” Draco holds a hand towards one of the seats, and Harry promptly takes it. “Assuming you’re adept at having the most basic of conversations with people in the Ministry, at the very least.”

Turning towards the bookcases, Draco plucks a book with a blue velvet spine. He hasn’t even thought about this specific manual since the last time Lucius insisted he memorize it, but current circumstances have provided him with a way to change the path he’s currently on.

Flipping through pages, Draco returns to the table and sets the book down, nudging it in Harry’s direction.

Although he expected it, Harry’s burst of laughter still annoys him.

“You’re joking.”

“At the end of the day you’re the Wizarding World’s most eligible bachelor. Whether or not you’ve decided to begin courting, it’s only a matter time before you get back into the swing of things. Best you don’t make a complete fucking idiot of yourself.”

Harry scans the page in front of him. “A wizard shan’t approach a witch during the moon’s waning?” He shuts the book with a heavy thunk. “What year is it, the fifteen-hundreds?”

“While most of it is antiquated—”

“I never had to do this with Ginny. And before you say anything, the Weasleys are also a Pureblood family.”

“Yeah, well, the Weasleys hardly count.” With so many siblings, he suspects the matriarch would want them all out of the household as soon as possible, proper courting be dammed.

“You did all of this, then. Followed it to the letter.”

“Needlessly, but yes. Neither Astoria or I had much of a choice when it came down to it.” He immediately bites his tongue, regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth. “Had we gotten along or not, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

Harry fiddles with the corner of the book, fingers picking at the worn velvet. He looks to be searching for something inoffensive to say, and Draco marvels at how much Harry has actually matured over the years.

“A lot of these rules should be updated,” he says with an awkward lilt to this words. “What if a wizard is interested in another wizard rather than a witch?”

“They’re more like guidelines,” Draco explains. “Rules can be modified to fit the circumstances of a relationship. Even for divorcees.”

“Here I thought being the Chosen One would get me a free pass.”

“Might have if you were still a teenager. Now you’re an old man who needs something other than a name to attract a suitable partner with your lack of youthful vigor.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Harry pushes the book away from him and leans back in his chair in an easy slouch as he watches Draco intently. He steeples his fingers together, thumbs tapping his chin as he ponders something or another. “I would appreciate if you could give me a brief summary of what it is I have to do.”

Subduing the urge to call him a lazy prat, Draco instead chooses the slowly pace the room. There is energy vibrating within his limbs, mostly urging him to throw all sensible thoughts out the window and straddle the man’s hips.

“Not everything has to have a shortcut, Potter.”

“Oh, so now we’re back on last name basis.”

“The point of courting,” Draco continues, ignoring him, “is to prove to someone that they are worth your time and effort, that you will go to great lengths to earn their attention and, better yet, their affections.” He pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “Whatever you might think with that pea-sized brain of yours, a lot of us genuinely care for who we are to marry.”

“Can the person being courted say no?”

“Obviously. It’s a trial, not a contract.”

“The contract only comes afterward.”

“So to speak.”

Harry nods. “I feel like the Wizarding World needs to take a couple more steps into the modern age.”

“We don’t like change.”

“Change is terrifying,” Harry agrees. “But it makes us grow.”

“You were raised as a Muggle, weren’t you?” Draco says, aware of how unfair he is being. “Your sense of change bettered you, I assume. From boring boy to a powerful wizard, must have been a terrible transition for you.”

“It was brilliant, really.” Despite the naked sincerity in his voice, something dark swims in the twist of his mouth. “Best day of my life, learning that I was something bigger than the scum beneath my aunt and uncle’s shoes. But change isn’t a one time thing.”

Draco finally takes the seat opposite of Harry, sensing that whatever is to be said will be too personal to take in with an aloof front. It’s eerie, how a single glance can communicate so much. “The war changed all of us,” he says, wandlessly closing the parlor door.

Harry looks off, fixing his gaze on something over Draco’s shoulder. “I died in that clearing.” The words are hollow, as if they’re still the cause of nightmares after all these years. “I came back and my first act was murder.” His lips are pressed into a thin line, fingers flexing together. “You may be guilty of inaction, but I killed Tom Riddle that day. And that changed me.”

“We were at war,” Draco says, his words barely spoken. 

His mother had whispered to him the story of how Harry Potter had lain unconscious within a circle of Death Eaters, how the Dark Lord had laughed with triumph as he stood over the alleged body of the boy who dared defy him.

Harry did what he did to protect them all. He saved them.

“It helped it become easier,” Harry continues, still avoiding looking at Draco. “So much so that it became my job. Got bloody good at it, too, being an Auror. Never had to hesitate.”

The simplicity of the information settles over Draco’s shoulders like lead, a well known secret nobody knows the entirety of, and something akin to honor manifests in the bowels of his heart. That Harry Potter’s anger, his thinly contained violence is a direct cause of childhood trauma is a sobering piece of knowledge.

There is camaraderie in the acceptance that they’re both broken, no matter how much time has passed.

“My point,” he says, making an ugly sound with his nose, “is that no one’s going to die if we introduce wireless internet into Diagon. Neither will the world end if I don’t follow a How-To book.”

“It’s tradition,” Draco says, too wound to look Harry in the eye. “Even Muggles have their stupid traditions.”

“They aren’t dictated by them.”

Draco calls for Beems to bring them tea, despite the need for something far stronger.

They linger in companionable silence, a comforting aspect Draco never expected they could mutually partake. Back in the day, it was common knowledge how much Draco loved the sound of his own voice, as well as Harry’s inability to remain quiet for more than five seconds. That they can share something like this is undoubtedly special, and it pains Draco to accept that nothing more can come of it.

“Will you tell me about her?” Harry asks with a steaming cup in hand, eyes fixed steady on the gold rim of it. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. I’m just curious as to what kind of person would be able to handle Draco Malfoy in his youth.”

The wave of indignant defensiveness never comes, and Draco is left sitting there with nothing but fond memories and a heavy heart. A prick of guilt keeps his mouth shut for a moment longer, to speak of Astoria to a man he desires and has lusted after even throughout their time together. It borders on infidelity, and Draco Malfoy does not abide by hurtful behavior towards those he loves.

Another, more tired part of him wants to speak, however. He wants to let go of the grief, to remember her with the same joy she brought to him in life. Because in the end, all Astoria will remain is a memory, and he wants to be able to do so without causing himself pain. She would never want that.

“She loved the outdoors,” he says quietly, quickly closing his eyes when he feels them begin to burn. “The idea of moving into the manor didn’t go too well, especially when I became a bit of a recluse. It got better when she realized I didn’t care if she spent her weekends in the Alps, climbing mountains for fun.”

Astoria hadn’t spoken to him during the first month of their marriage, and he had been glad about it. While a handsome woman, he had no real desire to consummate anything with her, and had enjoyed the quiet of the Manor with her and his parents gone.

“We grew to care for each other. I’m not sure how, or how long it took, but one moment we wouldn’t look each other in the eye and the next she was holding my hand. The war was never touched on. Our conversations were casual, at best, but we were together, and we protected each other, and loved each other. We became friends.”

And that was all they were.

“She never said anything, but I’m sure she suspected my… _proclivities_.” He spits the word like the disgrace it is, shame suffusing his entire body. “I’m certain my parents did too, which was why dad was so desperate for me to marry.” Scratching his chin, Draco shakes his head. “Regardless, there was never any disgust from her. Just acceptance.”

Harry moves to refill his cup, and Draco thanks him with a simple nod.

“She was good at singing,” he says, deciding on something lighter. “I remember misplacing an old journal of mine but I didn’t make much of it, until one morning I woke up to her singing Weasley is our King from the living area. Every single terrible song I came up with in school she composed a tune for it, sang it as loudly as possible just to annoy me. Scorpius loved it, though. He would join in when he was old enough.”

The out of tune shrill of a five-year-old Scorpius had given him an uncountable amount of headaches.

“Strategy games were her forte. We spent countless nights trying to gain the upper hand at chess, even Wizard’s Skittles. Pure Slytherin, mind you. I once came home to discover my entire wardrobe trapped in a Freezing Charm. My shoes were victims to a particularly vicious Sticking Charm.”

Harry’s smiling, the tension from before having melted from him the more Draco spoke. He rather likes this look, he decides, the one of comfortable fascination as he clings onto Draco’s every word. Or he might also like being the sole object of Harry’s attention. Either way, the day feels heavy with melancholy, but the pleasant kind that make limbs feel heavy.

It feels safe, and Draco wonders why.

“Thank you,” Harry says once Draco lapses into another long silence. “I…” He lets the sentence drop, turning towards the windows that face the front of the manor. Sun and snow make the room blindingly bright.

“I don’t talk about her much,” Draco says. He shifts away when the glare becomes too much on his eyes.

“Feel better now?”

It sounds like such a silly question, but Draco finds himself nodding his head. “I miss her.”

The somberness rests between them as a milestone, with confessions laid bare on the table before them. Confusion saddles itself in the messy tangle of Draco’s emotions, making him wonder where all of this might lead. With the taste of Harry’s lips fresh on his mind and hearts poured out, a new form of fear drags down his spine.

“She sounds like a brilliant person.”

“She is. Was.” When the waves of sorrow ease, Draco smiles. “Don’t you think Scorpius deserves to see her again?”

He hates the question, sounding too much like he’s asking for permission to continue his work. It swings like a pendulum, a scimitar inching ever closer to Draco’s throat.

With great relief, he sees no pity in Harry’s eyes.

“I think… I think Scorpius loves his mum, the same way she loved him.” He nods his head, eyes on his hands as if remembering something distant. “And I think he loves you, too, the same way you love him. You’ve both done good by him.”

The veiled meaning is perfectly clear, and Draco can feel his world narrowing down to nothing. Scorpius no longer needs his mother as he did as a child. The past is the past and it should not be tampered with. The future lies within the hands of the brave, and it is now up to Scorpius to make the right decisions. Draco can only hope they have both led their son down the right path.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” Harry adds, looking more embarrassed than Draco has ever seen him. “I was a complete tosser and didn’t take into consideration that you still might be mourning. It was selfish of me.”

“I wanted it just as much as you did,” it pains Draco to admit, but it’s yet another deeply harbored secret he’s relieved to let go of. “All of this makes me feel like I’m about to float away.” He grits his teeth, forcing himself to speak the last of his woes. “I wish I could say that all I need is time, but that’s not the case with you. No amount of time in the world would allow us the pleasure.”

It’s a glorious feeling, being able to speak his torments aloud.

“Blimey,” Harry mutters, and then laughs. “So what you’re saying is, if not for the boys, you would… you know.” Draco glares at him. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m a bit flattered.”

“As if your ego wasn’t big enough already.”

“The fact that you’d shag me alone is monumental.”

“Shut up, Potter.”

Harry’s laughter comes in small bursts, all of them deep and rich, tickling a part of Draco he hadn’t been entirely aware of but decidedly likes. “Make me.”

Setting down his cup, Draco gets to his feet with a huff. “Don’t test me.” 

Wand in hand, he sets everything back in place and opens the rest of the curtains, enjoying the view of the parlor when fully lit. His back to Harry, he throws a casual “We should get back to the dining room” over his shoulder, but that last word is broken off when strong hands grip his hips.

Harry’s chest presses flush against his back in a solid wall of heat. A cool nose presses against his ear, the huff of a husky laugh rustling his hair at this proximity. Draco’s knees lock or else risk folding beneath him, arousal kicking wilder than a dragon as he feels himself grow stiff.

“Beg your pardon,” Harry tells him, allowing his hands to fall away after one final squeeze. “But you’re in the way.”

Draco nearly trips over his own feet in his hurry to step aside, clearing the door for Harry to walk through. “Sorry,” he mumbles feebly, but Harry’s already out of listening range, disappearing into the doors leading to the dining room.

Taking a moment to compose himself, Draco wonders at how he reached this point, where a mere touch is enough to render completely useless. At this rate, he will never survive being his Plus One. He’s fairly certain Harry Potter will be death of him.


	11. 10.

To step foot inside a former Death Eater safehouse after all of this time is a clear indication to how much of a bad idea this night will be.

Fully refurbished and turned into an external office for foreign affairs for the Ministry, Draco is certain that all traces of dark magic he feels reacting to him is merely the ghost of a memory powerful enough to make the faded scar on his arm burn. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of his past, now painted in vibrant tones of red, gold, and green. 

Most of it all is white, with the walls and high ceilings emulating falling snow that accumulates on the giant Christmas tree at the very end of the hall. Glitter shines all around him, sparkling glass catching his eye, and twinkling lights line the tables, wrapped around garland scattered about.

It’s all very festive, tastefully so, and Draco is thrown back into sweeter memories of Christmas with his parents, attending lavish balls and hosting extravagant parties at Malfoy Manor. Draco has always enjoyed the aesthetic, but that’s about the extent of it. He doesn’t like being crowded.

He also doesn’t like being stared at, not with scorn and derision and surprise. He figures he should have done himself a favor and worn something a little more innocuous, but the outfit had been a gift from Parkinson, and if anything, he will forever trust her judgement when it comes to fashion.

His clothing are of a powdery blue, a cut so severe it makes him look sharper along his edges. The trousers are a little too tight, the top form fitting and adorned with a tasteful line of decorative buttons along the left side. But the selling point, he admits, is the cloak that rests loosely over his shoulders, cascading down his right flank and lined with pale tan fur.

Compared to the rest of the guests, only the women dare flaunt such a color, while men stick to the usual black and white. For the exception of one Auror Draco spots across the room, standing near the Minister for Magic.

The deep crimson of his robes elegantly accents the color of Harry’s skin and hair, making him stand out in an otherwise dull crowd. He has, by some Christmas miracle, somewhat tamed his hair into something presentable. His horridly outdated glasses remain perched on his nose, and Draco finds that seeing anything other than those ridiculous round things would render the image of him wrong.

Draco ponders how he could ever have doubted Harry’s ability to carry himself in a social environment such as this. He holds himself like a man certain of where he stands, of what he does, granting room for no nonsense. Tall and powerful, Harry Potter is every inch the man birthed from the Boy Who Lived.

He’s beautiful, and Draco marvels at the unexpected epiphany.

Weasley is the first to spot him, leaning to whisper something into Harry’s ear that has him grinning like a kneazle that caught the canary. Granger-Weasley lifts her eyebrows, following the direction her husband gestures towards.

Taking a centering breath, Draco braves crossing the less crowded center of the floor, putting him under the chandelier’s spotlight, and in turn within the eyesight of every person present. He’s sure he’s only just imagined it but the voices seem to go quiet, more murmurs than the loud static chatter that surrounded him since entering unannounced.

But all of it burns away when Harry turns to him, his smile as brilliant as the sun and every bit as debilitating as it had been since they were eleven. To be the center of that blinding attention renders Draco drunk with heady power.

Harry breaks away from his friends to meet Draco half way, and with each step that brings them closer, the wider Harry’s eyes grow. By the time they’re face to face, he seems to be having a bit of trouble remembering to speak.

In a remarkable show of politeness, Harry bows low. “Lord Malfoy,” he says, barely able to keep the shake of humor from his tone.

It’s as ridiculous as the wild beating of his heart.

Draco bows his head in turn. “Auror Potter,” he greets before straightening up and pausing at the hand being offered to him. He looks down at it, speechless at the sight of the blue stone glimmering in the palm of Harry’s hand.

“I figured a diamond would have been too forward of me,” Harry explains.

“You read the book.”

“More or less.”

Stories always speak of time slowing when experiencing true beauty, when the heart beats too strongly, and breath becomes short. But Draco learns that all of the stories are wrong, that time runs far too quickly to muster the right words, to make the right choice. Standing under twirling glitter and falling snow, Draco thinks of nothing but the now.

He presents his wrist, cheeks warming.

Harry gently attaches the delicate silver bracelet around Draco’s wrist and mutters a quick incantation that adjusts it to the right size. The sapphire gleams against his skin, and if he looks close enough, he can see constellations nearly invisible to the naked eye.

With this they tell the world that no one is to court Draco Malfoy, because Harry Potter has reserved the honor.

In those terms, the ancient ritual does sound dated.

“You’re more bullheaded than I thought you to be,” Draco says, clearing his throat when Harry offers his arm. He takes it, of course, highly aware of the voices that are no longer whispers, but outright gasps and shocked gossip.

“When have I ever turned down a challenge?” Harry shoots back, escorting him to the dance floor. “I know. Perfectly aware some of it is out of our control, but let’s not give up hope. It’s not really my style.”

Draco rolls his eyes when they find a suitable spot among the dancers and bow once more, beginning a waltz that would definitely give the gossip mongers something to wag their tongues about.

With sheer delight he discovers that Harry has been practicing without him, the surety of his stand and arch of his steps granting them both a grace capable of inspiring envy in heads that turn their way. Harry leads them into a quick five-step, a spin, sweeping the marble floors in long and elegant turns. Not for the first time, Draco finds himself swept off his feet, thoroughly seduced by strangely impeccable manners and excellent dancing.

Harry’s eyes continuously roam Draco’s face, unsure on what to focus on, and Draco takes pride on a decision well made. He knows he looks different, younger even, with a shaven face and hair cut short.

There came a freedom when he took a scissor to it, shedding the burden of his father’s genes with each satisfying snip. He hasn’t had it this short since Hogwarts, and he’s glad that the change has had the desired effect.

Despite the quick paced dance, Harry holds him with a gentleness he thought him incapable of as an Auror.

Draco can’t help but feeling like this is a culmination of some kind. Either the end of an era, or the beginning of something entirely alien. Perhaps it is the climax of this precarious and bizarre relationship he’s unthinkingly formed with his childhood nemesis.

Whatever it may be, it has Draco dancing on air. The ends of his robes could very well caress stars, setting him alight, but nothing could burn brighter than the green eyes looking at him as if Draco held the secrets of the universe in his pocket.

That the cosmos coalesced to bring them to this moment, past petty rivalries and gruesome wars, is enough to ease the writhing confusion in Draco’s chest. Whatever it is that they have, that they will ever be allowed to have, is irrelevant. 

At this fixed moment of time and space, Draco Malfoy is in love with Harry Potter. 

And it really is that simple.

He mourns the end of the song, bowing once more to the man who has ruined him from the very beginning of his life.

Harry’s smile is only for him, a private little tilt of the mouth that speaks louder than any call to arms.

“How’d I do?” he asks, but his smile turns into a smug smirk.

Draco nearly shoves him into the wall out of spite, but does his best to control the impulse. “Good enough to highlight how much of a brilliant teacher I am.”

Harry elbows him as discreetly as possible and Draco laughs as they make their way to the drinks.

They take champagne flutes and resort to walking the perimeter of the dance floor, only stopping to make polite small talk once or twice. Or, Harry, anyway. Everyone has gone above and beyond at their attempts at ignoring Draco. Only the occasional witch would comment on this sapphire on his wrist, prompting for more information to no avail.

“It’s definitely your robes,” Harry says at one point, leaning unceremoniously against a window’s ledge. “You look like a literal ice prince.”

“If this is how princes are treated, then I’m appalled.”

“Personally,” a voice says, “I think it has more to do with the reputation.”

Draco turns to the newcomer with a sharp retort on his tongue, but stops himself in time when he recognizes the round face of an old classmate. “Longbottom?”

“The one and only. Sort of.” He offers him a lopsided smile. “Hello, Malfoy. Harry.”

“Hey, Nev. Haven’t seen you in a while,” Harry greets, enthusiastically shaking his friend’s hand. “How’s it going?”

“Oh, it’s going great. You know, besides exams coming up. Mostly everyone is doing a fairly good job at keeping their grades up, but NEWT level classes are just as exhausting on me as it is on students.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. How’s Albus?”

“Terrible!” Longbottom explains with a smile, and Draco is taken aback by the outburst. “Honestly, he hates Herbology, and I’m sure he’ll do better in the exams than in my actual class, so there’s really nothing to worry about. He’s a lot better at Charms.” He nods enthusiastically, like that would be enough to drive the point home. “Scorpius, on the hand. A green thumb, that one. Nothing that boy can’t do.”

Draco smiles at this, casting Harry a triumphant look that says _ha!_ , and then feels guilty about it. But only a little. Albus is a smart kid, perfectly capable of keeping up with Scorpius, but Draco can’t help that burst of fatherly pride that bubbles within him from time to time.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Draco says instead, coolly.

“And how are things with you?” Longbottom asks him, that same ungainly attitude from his youth still clinging to his gestures. “Haven’t seen you about in a very long time. Luna tells me you're considering a post at Hogwarts?”

Harry’s head whips around at the words, eyes so comically wide Draco fears they’ll pop out of his head.

“Just a passing thought,” Draco assures him. “With so much time in my hands, I wondered if taking up teaching would make it more bearable.”

“Potions?”

“Astronomy.”

Longbottom nods his head, apparently delighted. “You should contact Minerva, if you’re honestly considering it. Sinistra has been meaning to retire for the past three years, but doesn’t want to leave the post vacant.”

“I’ll sleep on it,” Draco says, lifting his glass.

The three of them spend time sharing idle chit chat until Longbottom finally excuses himself, claiming a wife calling him from across the room. 

“To think he’d be at Hogwarts rather than here,” Draco says offhandedly.

They both watch him go, then a tug at his sleeve draws Draco’s attention back to the Auror at his shoulder.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were considering teaching?” Harry lets go of him, but then adjusts the fur lining of his robes.

“I wasn’t entirely serious when I said that. Luna made me promise I would consider doing new things every time I wrote her. She likes hearing about it.”

“Luna, of all people.”

“She sends me postcards during the Holidays. As well as the eighteenth of June.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t the slightest.”

They’re interrupted once more, and this time around, Draco stands a little straighter.

“Minister,” he says, holding out a hand for her to take.

Granger-Weasley gives him a strong handshake and a polite smile, one that’s less false than all the other ones they’ve ever exchanged. “Draco. It’s nice to see you.”

“Likewise.” At the arch of her eyebrow, he pushes on. “Thank you for having me this evening.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says, and Draco wonders if the title has changed her at all. “When Harry mentioned you being his plus one I can’t say I was surprised in the slightest.”

“Bit obsessive, much,” says Weasley, appearing by her shoulder. “Harry’s always been downright mental when it comes to you. Can’t say I’m sure why.” Regardless, Weasley reaches for a handshake as well, albeit a stiff one.

“Gee, thanks a lot, guys,” Harry says off to his side. “I just see a lot of friendly potential in him, is all. Now that we’re all past our stubbornness, prejudice, etcetera etcetera.”

“Are we?” she asks, and suddenly all eyes are back on him.

Were he one to fidget, Draco would be doing so about now, but as is, he’s tolerated far worse. He sees the challenge in the severity of Granger-Weasley’s dark features, the unwillingness in the set of Weasley’s mouth.

The question, though simple, runs deeper than blood and the scars he and his family have shed and inflicted. This is an olive branch, one more opportunity to put the past behind him and keep walking forth to whatever future may be awaiting Draco once the night is over.

He doubts a simple yes could erase the slurs he indirectly marked her with, forgive the derisive and derogatory comments he threw Weasley’s way.

Words would never be enough, but he hopes it’s a start. However weak it might be.

Draco nods his head, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Harry sag with relief.

Like the flick of a wand, Granger-Weasley’s eyes warm. “Any friend of Harry’s is a friend of ours,” she say, but then pointedly looks down at the poorly hidden bracelet. “Friend, or other,” she corrects, smiling knowingly.

Weasley looks at everything but them, but Draco doesn’t take it personally. Of all of them, Ronald has the most to begrudge him for, and Draco accepts full responsibility for that dislike. “Thank you, Minister.”

“You can call me Hermione, Draco. It’s not a crime.”

“I apologize,” he says. “I’ve just been doing my very best to avoid Azkaban and I feared addressing you by your given name would be a tad much.”

The steely look she gives him makes him whither.

“Don’t scare the man to death,” Weasley says. “I’m sure Harry would like his boyfriend alive.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I’m not his boyfriend.”

They both speak in unison, making Hermione and Ronald laugh and snort respectively.

“Right, anyway. We’ll leave you two be,” Hermione says, giving Draco a gracious bow of the head and patting Harry on the shoulder. “If anyone gives you any trouble, be sure to let me know.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione,” Harry says with a meek salute.

“Since I’m not sure when I’ll see you again: Merry Christmas, Draco.”

“Merry Christmas, Hermione.”

She gives him a bright smile before moving on to another group of people huddled near the roaring fire.

“Right, well,” Weasley clears his throat, looking rather uncomfortable. Draco is about to excuse himself when he finally spouts out what he’s wanted to say. “Ginny’s looking for you, mate.”

“What?” Harry blurts out with an ungainly gawk. “Ginny?”

Weasley shuffles his feet, eyes intently fixed on his drink. “Yeah, don’t know. She’s in the alcove by the tree on the second floor.”

He gives Draco a stiff nod before hurrying away, his robes finer than any Draco has ever seen him wear.

An awkward sort of silence befalls them, and Draco desperately tries to stop his brain from thinking.

“I—”

“Go. It’s rude to keep someone waiting.”

Harry looks at him before surveying the room around them. “Will you be fine by yourself?”

Draco scoffs at him. “I’m perfectly capable of fending for myself, Potter.” The words are more scathing than he intends to and he berates himself for it. He’s clearly overreacting, and there is no need to be this defensive in the public eye.

Nodding jerkily, Harry flexes his fists by his side. “Right.” He licks his lips, then reaches out to lightly touch the wrist that holds the proffered sapphire. “I’ll be back for you,” he promises, then leaves.

The force behind the words leave no room for misunderstanding: Harry is coming back.

It should be enough to assuage Draco’s worries, the ugly ball of anxiety that twists in his gut as he stands there in the middle of a pit of venomous vipers. It doesn’t. While able to defend himself, Draco wants nothing more than to dissolve into the walls, unnoticed. He wants to stop being on display, the monument erected for their hate.

He’ll be back.

That one conversation made certain that Ginevra Weasley is seeing another woman, that she filed for divorce on claims of having fallen out of love, of being unable to stand Harry as her spouse. They can still be friends. Nothing wrong with that.

He doesn’t want to think about what she might want to see him about. Reconciliation? Possible. Would Harry accept it?

The champagne no longer tastes as it should.

Draco should be grateful for Weasley’s interruption, giving him time to think how he got this far out of his bloody mind. Two weeks ago he had fought tooth and nail to make Harry understand why they could never be, that they cannot be involved when their sons only have eyes for each other. Draco had been adamant, cruel, stooping as low as calling him childish names in order to get him to open his eyes.

Yet all it took was Harry looking terribly fit in his red robes, and Draco is dropping what little moral high ground he’s been able to reclaim over the years.

Here he is, dancing and sharing intimate laughs when his son is probably doing the same exact thing within Hogwarts’ Great Hall. He’s a shame even to his own family, and those are fairly low standards as is.

This way, there will be no hurting Harry. He’ll always have someone to turn to.

Draco could gain his Mastery and become a professor. Within the castle walls, he will never have to see the Potters, only hear about Albus through kind letters from Scorpius. Work would drown him, help push his research past great lengths, and all would be well.

All would be well.

“Draco Malfoy? My, what an unpleasant surprise!”

Draco stiffens, does his best to appear unfazed by the grating voice so close to his ear. He turns to be greeted by a face that is vaguely familiar, completely unremarkable, but the gaudy outfit and floating quill and parchment is what gives her away.

Wretched unease makes him nauseous, because however this conversation goes, he knows that by tomorrow morning his name will be slandered all over the front page of The Daily Prophet.

“Skeeter,” he says, as evenly as possible. “Good to see the surprise is mutual. I would have thought you retired by now.”

“I’ll retire when I die, love. Too much to inform, too little time.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of informed, I never expected to come across a Malfoy ever again, what with the shoddy reputation following you lot around. Tell me, is there a reason why the Ministry would extend an invitation to you now in these times of peace?”

Aware that he’s being rude, Draco turns his back to her. “Wouldn’t you like to know, _love_.”

Skeeter, ever the persistent pest, noisily click-clacks her way in front of him again. Her pout is ridiculous and well rehearsed, seeping nothing but insidious poison. “Perhaps a formal apology for all those wretched rumors about your precious little son. Or is the Savior of the Wizarding World extending a pitiful bid for friendship now that your boys are shacking up in Hogwarts’ dark corridors?”

Draco seethes, but keeps from replying. He needn’t fuel the fire where shit excuses for reporters were involved.

“Any comment on that, Mr. Malfoy? Any thoughts on how that may gleam on your family names? Auror Potter’s son in cahoots with the son of a convicted Death Eater. If he is, in fact, your son. We never did get a certain answer for that allegation, after all.”

The strength it takes for him to refrain from drawing his wand is monumental. He will not give her or anyone else present the satisfaction of seeing him snap. Whoever ratted out his son’s relationship to the Prophet deserves their due, but now is not the time. Draco will deal with it later. Now, he just wants her to go away.

“Maybe not a personal invitation after all,” she says, and the delighted tone of it makes him flinch. “Not a white diamond, but I can recognize a courting trinket when I see one.” Skeeter is about to spew more rubbish when she stops, eyes going wide as she makes a connection Draco knows he will not like. “Oh. Oh, in Merlin’s name… what a _scandal_.” She covers her mouth with a gloved hand, the quill weaving away furiously beside her. “Such deviant behaviour just never changes, does it?”

Having had enough, Draco calmly put his glass down and idly adjusts his robes with shaking hands. “I look forward to your article,” he says, looking down at the parchment floating dangerously near his face. “Considering I haven’t seen your name on any in the last ten years.” With a nod, he takes some form joy from the redness on her face. “Merry Christmas.”

**__________________________**

Draco most certainly does not run away.

He quickly walks as far away from the swarming crowd as possible.

The whispers have doubled now, become louder with each of Skeeter’s dreadful statements. He trips at one point, thinks someone’s hexed him, but he’s fled to a desolate floor where no one’s sure to follow.

He knows this mansion. Despite the makeover, it is still the same house where he received the Dark Mark all those years ago. 

He can see the ghost of his parents hurrying down the hallway in front of him, Narcissa desperately clinging to Lucius and wordlessly begging him to reconsider. Further down, he can see the ghost of his sixteen year old self, arms crossed over his chest and quivering with fear, shaking his head in one last ditch attempt to reroute his fate.

Not much has changed.

Draco Malfoy was, is, and forever will be, a coward.

The collar of his outfit is too tight, squeezing the column of his throat enough to cut off his breath. The air itself is too thin, too stale and cold to properly hold in his lungs.

He hurries, desperate for air, in search of a balcony he knows is on this floor.

He carelessly sheds his cloak, ignoring where it lands. His fingers fumble with the first buttons of his top, and it’s only when he pushes open the glass doors with his shoulder that he’s able to release them. He gapes like a man drowning, knees shaking beneath him, and he leans against the banister for balance.

This was a mistake. He should have turned Harry down from the very beginning instead of entertaining fantasies that would remain just that.

But he’s still breathing.

The world is not ending.

He counts down from one hundred, accenting each second with a deep breath.

Exhaustion weighs down his bones.

The night is excruciatingly cold and stunningly clear, the inky black sky decorated with thousands of glimmering stars and a heavy moon. The land glows white with snow from just this morning, the garden beneath him untouched by visitors too apprehensive to explore the grounds. Draco had been too, once, despite his cockyness.

In all, it is a beautiful night. With one week until Christmas Draco is glad for the lovely gift he has been granted, albeit short lived.

“There you are,” comes Harry’s voice from behind. He sounds out of breath, as if he’d run all the way there. “I found your cloak down the hall. Is everything alright?”

“Yes.”

“What’s wrong?” Harry joins him by the railing, leaning over it and looking down at the gardens. “What is it?”

Draco shakes his head, keeping his gaze trained on the dark horizon. “Nothing.”

“You’re shivering, you prat.” Harry drapes his own cloak over Draco’s shoulders, but it won’t be enough. The temperature is on a continuous decline, and he has no desire to go back inside. “Hey, look at me. Who said something?”

“No one did,” Draco says, and it might be the truth. The whispers could just as well only been in his head. “What did she want?”

Harry stares at him before slowly shaking his head. “Nothing important,” is all he offers. He reaches for Draco but stops mid way, seeing something he dislikes. “You don’t believe me.”

“I doubt I will be very good company for the rest of the evening,” Draco announces, turning his back to him. “Go find your friends. Salvage whatever is left of the night.”

“Draco.”

“Let it go, Potter!” The words are enough to bring his fussing to an end. “Let it end. I'm fucking done with all this and you should be, too. Trying to fix things that can't be fixed. None of this can be fixed, I can’t be fixed, and none of this cares about who you are or your philanthropic intentions!” He sucks in a breath, feeling the same quiet numbness that follows every outburst settle over him. “Just leave me alone. I can deal with this myself. I've always dealt with it myself.”

Turning away, he goes back to gripping the banister.

This place reminds him of the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts and he hates it. He hates everything; that he's abandoned the one thing that has kept him preoccupied, that he flirted with the idea of robbing his son of his happiness, that he continues to put his wants and needs above everyone else’s. That no matter what he says or does people like Rita Skeeter will always prosecute his family.

He hates that with his parents gone, with Astoria gone, there is no one left to care. With Scorpius growing up, leaving home, Draco will have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“There's something you need to know,” Harry says. He looks down at the snow covered lawn, and presses their shoulders together. 

“I don't care.”

“Don't be difficult.”

Draco laughs, humorless and ugly. “That would require eliminating a large percentage of my personality.”

“Ginny was curious as to why we were dancing, if the rumors were true,” Harry assures with a defeated sigh. “She's a little concerned that of all people I'd choose to bring you as a date.”

“Of all people.”

“Yes, Draco, out of all of them.”

“Then I guess I should thank you for accepting my charity case.”

“Fucking _hell_.” Harry pushes himself away from the railing to angrily pace the small balcony. “When in our entire lifetime have I ever treated you with pity? I'll fucking deck you before I ever will. I asked you because I wanted it to be you. Because I actually enjoy your company.”

Draco wants to shout back a reply, to lash out, but he simply can't find the words or the will to argue. He's tired, and all he wants is to go home.

“You won't like the papers tomorrow,” is the only thing he can muster. “None of us will.”

“So? I don't care for the papers,” Harry says, far more calmly than his previous rant. “Never have, never will.” His sigh is long-suffering, mildly defeated, but there is a stubborn resoluteness as he closes the glass doors to grant them privacy.

“Don't give up yet,” Harry continues. “Give us another week, and then decide whether or not you'd prefer your life without me in it.”

The fact that Harry fails to understand grates his nerves raw. He's lost count of the many times he has listed off the reasons why they could never work, but it's blatantly obvious the man refuses to listen.

“You're infuriating.”

“Can say the same about you, really.”

Pulling the cloak tighter around his shoulders, Draco suppresses a shiver. 

Another week.

Another seven days of intimate conversations and heated looks, fleeting touches that promise more yet never deliver, teetering over the edge of things not meant to be wanted.

Looking up to the heavens, letting his eyes trail over twinkling starlight, Draco recalls a time when compartmentalizing was much easier. Setting his self-loathing aside had been a breeze when he could just ignore it in favor of doing what was required of him.

What’s one more transgression? One more notch on his belt?

He hears Harry shuffle beside him, the tap of his shoes against the stone floor signaling his exit.

Draco grips the railing with enough force to hurt his nails, wishing he no longer had to fight entire wars within himself in a matter of moments. 

He surrenders at the sound of the door being opened.

“Wait.”

For once, time does slow to a near crawl. He’s aware of the presence at his back, of the lines about to be crossed, and the choices he will eventually grow to regret.

Draco searches the inky black of the sky for the telltale glow of burning rocks shooting across it. He waits and waits, wishing he’d brought his watch, fighting against the burning cold of his cheeks.

“Father and I would often stargaze before my time at Hogwarts,” Draco begins, but stops when emotion threatens to overwhelm him. His life, always so intricately entwined with the stars.

Tonight’s intention had been to miss it entirely. Agreeing to come to the event had been an excuse, a distraction for the hundreds of sheets of parchment he is about to scatter to the wind. In one last act of betrayal, Draco had hoped to dance until the first rays of sunlight trickled in through the French-style windows, mind a million miles away.

Unsure of how much time has passed, paying little to no attention despite looking, it’s Harry who sees it first.

“A meteor shower,” he says quietly.

Draco wants to tell him that it is a special one, that within the darting points of light a much bigger and rarer structure will be joining the crossing with its icy tail and ancient magic.

They stand side by side, looking up with nothing but shared breaths between them.

It is uneventful. The mansion’s lights are too bright to fully appreciate the splendor and only the occasional streak catches their attention. It’s as difficult as catching shooting stars in the heart of London, and Draco accepts it as being fair.

From this point on, there is no going back.

A touch to his elbow grounds him, and damn Potter for being as clever as he is because of course he knows what Draco has done.

Draco presses fingertips to the corner of his eyes, feeling grief overtake him once more. He’s just let Astoria die a second time.

“Can I touch you?”

The question comes as a surprise, the vulnerable softness of it more so.

When he fails to answer, Harry slowly guides him until they’re toe to toe. Draco keeps his eyes downcast, frightened by what he might see reflected on Harry’s features.

“Please, look at me.”

“I can’t,” Draco says, but he’s already moving without consent, bumping their foreheads together and biting back the well of despair that rips at his chest. “I can’t.” He wants to say he doesn’t know how, but rather, Draco decides on slotting their mouths together in a hesitant kiss.

He doesn’t know how to love without fault, how to say the words he truly means, how to keep good things from going wrong. He doesn’t know how to be right, but at the very least, he can give Harry one more gentle reminder that Draco wants to.

With cold fingers combing through his hair and the firm grip on his elbow, Draco melts into the blissful contact he’s never once experienced or craved.

He would do it all again if it meant stealing this moment time after time after time.


	12. 11.

The hot cocoa is rich, sweet, and hot enough to scorch his tongue. It does wonders for his cold fingers however, and Draco is perfectly content inhaling the aroma as it swirls around his nose, reminding him of the simple joys Christmas brings.

Even with the added bonus of miniature explosions going off from different points in the manor every other hour.

Any other year he would be seething at the interruption of his peace, but as is, the nature of the company is a tiny blessing he secretly keeps close to his heart.

Until a peacock is chased across the parlor door, and then all Draco can do is curse every saint under the sun for his idiocy.

“Beems, we may be having peacock for supper this evening, just so you know.”

The ancient house elf appears with a pop, looking up at him with rueful eyes that say she knows perfectly well that he’s joking. “Roasted, Master Draco?”

“Fried, preferably.” A crash. “Feathers and all.”

The abuse this house has suffered during the past couple of months is unspeakable. Were he still alive, Lucius would be wringing people’s necks for it. As is, Draco could really care less, but he really would prefer to keep a solid roof over his head for a while longer.

Setting down his cup, Draco decides that a good job must be one done for himself. Wand in hand, he heads into the corridor in hot pursuit.

“Come here, you bloody oversized chicken.”

He follows the sounds of breaking things, the skittering of sharp feet over stone floors, and the ungainly squawking he’s hated since before been able to grasp the concept of hate.

“... it’d be the perfect gift! She’ll shut up about it, and your dad would thank me for the service.”

“My house is not a shop, Potter,” Draco says as he finally comes across the source of his headache. “If you want to buy your sister a present, you’re going to have to try something other than stealing my bird.”

“I thought you hated them!” Scorpius exclaims, looking worse for wear. His clothing is soaked through, boots trailing mud across his impeccable floors, and Draco doesn’t want to think much more than that.

“They still belong to the family,” he says, and then to Albus: “Before your old man pops in to yell at me, what the hell are you doing here?”

“Dad will probably yell at you anyway, but he knows I’m here,” Albus offers, holding up his hands in surrender. “He plans on dropping by later tonight, so I figured I’d drop in and give you a heads up.”

“A heads up I never received,” Draco retorts, not buying it for a second. Still, he summons Beems and lets her know they will be having guests for supper.

“This would be the first time in years that this house hosts guests on Christmas Eve,” she preens, skipping excitedly by Draco’s side. “Should I ready the guest rooms, Master Draco?”

“No need, I doubt they will be staying long.” He’s perplexed that the Potters would even give it a thought, spending such a day within the manor. It tickles a feeling close to excitement in Draco, something he hasn’t experienced since he was a child waiting to open presents on Christmas morning.

Trusting that the peacock will be dealt with by the two miscreants currently wreaking havoc in the otherwise peacefully quiet halls, Draco peeks into the most commonly visited rooms and frowns. He hadn’t done much decorating, preoccupied as he was with just about everything else. Only the tree stands in the receiving area, its dull colors wrapping up the remainder of the dull atmosphere.

It won’t do. If they’re to have guests, then Draco shall properly entertain, like a true Malfoy.

Removing his robes and drawing his wand, he sets to work.

**__________________________**

“Never thought you’d be one for holiday cheer,” Harry says. He picks at the holly that decorates the statues along the gardens, inspecting them with a critical eye. “I like it.”

Draco looks around agreeably, patting himself on the back for a job well done. For being such a short notice, he’s gone above and beyond at transfiguring ornaments and the like. Even a light sprinkling of snow rests over the interior, lightening the otherwise dark oak and stone.

“Salazar knows when I’ll see Scorpius again once summer ends. In case he refuses returning for the holidays, I figured I’d make this one count.”

“It’s really nice.” Harry brings his coat closer to him, shivering in the early afternoon chill. “I’m sorry for dropping in unannounced. Al wanted to spend some time with the two of you, and I figured it was best I keep an eye on him. Don’t want him blowing up any Christmas trees on Christmas Eve.”

Draco wants to comment that, while no trees were harmed during the visit, a peacock was not as fortunate. “Or any other time, preferably.”

The path beneath their feet has been cleared as opposed to the rest of the grounds currently blanketed with several inches of snow. It shines bright in his eyes. Pure and untouched, Draco is reminded of why he loves it so much. While Spring showers bring out beautiful flowers and the stunning green he so adores, there is something calming about the freeze that precedes it all.

“These past several months have been crazy,” Harry says, quietly awed by something Draco can’t discern. He laughs then, startling him. “Like our lives were… I don’t know.”

“Like our lives gravitated towards each other?”

“Our lives have always done that.”

“Minus the attraction,” Draco says with a smile of his own. “Here I am, using Muggle terminology.”

“See what I mean? It’s been wild.”

It truly has.

Beside him, as they walk aimlessly through unperturbed gardens, Harry fidgets. Barely noticeable, Draco picks up on the way he looks away, his lips purse, and scratches his cheek. He pushes his glasses up his nose, sweeps his hair out of his eyes. It’s gotten longer, Draco notices, but doesn’t comment. He rather likes it that way.

“Be done with it, Potter, and just say what you have to say.”

“Cut me some slack, alright? I’m trying.”

Draco sighs, hurrying his stride. “A poor excuse for a Gryffindor.”

“Here I thought you’d appreciate me trying to be tactful for once.” Harry stops walking altogether, pinching the bridge of his nose with mild exasperation. He then shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat and looks off, focusing on one of the second floor windows of the manor.

“Whenever you’re ready, now. Not like it’s bloody freezing or anything,” Draco says, mostly out of need to fill the silence. Anxiousness licks at his fingers, urging him to take any sort of action.

Harry opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. He blinks owlishly, seemingly forgetting about engaging Draco at all.

“What are you looking at?” But then he sees it too, glimmering in the distance.

Hundreds of twinkling lights twist and twirl their way to them, glowing fiercely even in the already bright daylight. They glide through the air with ease, playing a game of catch fascinating to watch. They snag on trees as they go, rest upon statues and benches, glimmer all the way down to the tops of their shoes.

“What are they?”

“I think they’re lights,” Harry says. To test his theory, he wiggles his foot, making the yellow sparkles disperse and fall to the ground. “Wicked.”

“Enchanted Christmas lights.” Draco surely didn’t conjure them, and while Harry is adept at both wandless and wordless magic, he doubts the man frivolous enough to even bother with something so banal. “Who would…?”

Draco’s question is answered in the form of choked back laughter that’s quickly cut off, the rustling of fabric, and the crunch of snow despite the two of them standing perfectly still on a clear path.

Harry tugs his sleeve and discreetly angles his head towards the patch of snow that leads into a denser segment of the gardens. There, near a decommissioned pond, three sets of footprints hurriedly retreat.

“You gave him your Invisibility Cloak?” Draco snaps at him in a whisper, unsure of why.

“No, I gave it to James,” Harry answers with a shrug. “Never really know what those two get up to.”

“Why this?” Draco does a small spin on the spot, glaring at the useless lights like they’ve personally offended him. “What’s the point?”

Harry too looks around, a childish grin plastered over his face. “I don’t know, but I kind of like it.” He skips up the path and stops, points back to the decommissioned fountain. “Look! They’re dancing.”

At the very top of the sphere Venus holds over her head, two lights spin around each other. Up and down they go, one slow turn followed by another. They land over the sphere and continue to spin, getting brighter and dimmer as they go.

Draco walks closer, positively enchanted when the yellow glow turns a pale blue, and then back again. He’s never seen anything like it, so simple yet complex, beautiful against already sparkling snow.

More come to them, falling like dusty rain over their shoulders.

“It’s like fairy dust.”

“Don’t be daft. Fairies don’t go about dusting people.”

“No, I mean the fairy dust in Muggle stories. They believe it to have magical properties. It’s basically the root of all their fairy tales.”

Draco scoffs, but it’s half-hearted. “Muggles believing in magic.”

“A lot of them do. Most of them _want_ to believe. I think it’s a fundamental need we all have.”

“How poetic of you.”

“I stole that from Luna.”

Draco can’t help the smirk that tugs at his mouth. “Of course you did, you oaf.”

Harry walks lazy circles around him, admiring the light show that sporadically comes to life. He tries catching the nearest ones but they zoom away from him, making him laugh as he gives chase.

They all seem content to hover above Draco, going as far as resting on his fingertips when he puts up a hand to catch them. If only Snitches were as easy.

“I never intended to take her place,” Harry says out of the blue, stopping with his back to Draco. 

He wants to call him rude, among other mean things, but he takes it in stride. Before him is a man who has relied on actions rather than words throughout his entire life, and to see him search long and hard for the right words to say is more than Draco would have ever expected from him.

“I don’t want to, frankly,” he continues. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, for us to change the way we did. But it happened, and now we’re here.”

“Where is _here_ , exactly?” Draco argues. “Here isn’t much different than the there we stood three decades ago. That fucking chasm between us just as wide, mind you.”

“I don’t think it is,” Harry tries, finally turning towards him. He looks uncertain, all things considered. “I think… I think we’ve grown up. That we still don’t know what we’re doing, but we’re doing better at it.”

“Maybe.” Draco shrugs, averting his eyes. It’s only when his lashes grow cold and wet that he realizes it’s begun snowing again. “But what is there to gain from a lack of,” he gestures between them, “this? Space. Whatever it is you want to call it.”

“A lot, actually.” The space between them grows smaller, Harry’s steps bold but slightly faltering. “You see, Malfoy, part of what makes me a good Auror is my knowing how to catch what I’m looking for. Be that a Dark wizard, a Dark object. You.”

“If that is your attempt at seduction, I’m surprised you spawned three miscreants.”

“I can be very seductive if I want to,” Harry says, indignant. “But, no, I was trying to prove a point. The two of us can benefit from a mutual accord.”

“I’m not interested in a one night shag,” Draco says darkly, pulling away or else risk being drawn in by the oddly magnetic look in Harry’s eyes.

“Good thing that’s not what I’m offering.”

“Let me rephrase that: I’m not interested in anything you have to offer, Potter.”

“Really?” Harry looks down with a knowing little smirk Draco wants to snog away. “I figured otherwise with the bracelet still around your wrist.”

“I find it aesthetically pleasing,” Draco tries, but he knows he has lost. “I let you court me because I like the attention.”

“Some things just don’t change.” Harry’s hands grip Draco’s hips and pull him closer. “There’s also a vital piece of information you might be interested in knowing. Perhaps that’ll help sway you in my favor.”

Draco can vaguely hear the words, but he can sure as all hell see Harry mouthing them. “Do share.”

His heart beats quicker when Harry leans in, brings his lips dangerously close to Draco’s ear. “We are consenting adults with absolutely no reason as to why we shouldn’t begin a relationship.”

Draco shoves him away. He waits for the usual ire to set in, but in its stead all he feels is stale annoyance. “I have a very good reason why we shouldn’t, in case you either forgot or are willingly blind.”

“You still don’t get it.”

“Apparently, neither do you!”

Harry rubs both hands over his face, then spreads his arms to encompass everything around them. “All of this, and you still don’t see it. God, how dense can you actualy be?”

“No denser than you,” he says, confusion needling its way into his steady resolve. Part of him thinks Harry has gone mad, but something else, something eerily similar to hope whispers otherwise.

“Everything was perfectly orchestrated by the two Slytherins you’ve been harboring in your house.”

Draco stares at him. “What the blazes are you on about?”

“The fire, the explosion, the ball, the meetings,” he checks them all of with a finger, then holds up a hand to the sapphire hanging from Draco’s wrist. “That. It was all them. All of it. Albus and Scorpius have been trying to get us in the same room since summer began.”

 

The past couple of months have indeed been out of the norm, especially due to the times Draco has been compelled to gawk. “You’re lying.”

“Use your head, Draco. Am I really?”

“But…” He tries for an argument, for anything that’ll disprove his claims. Instead, his mind just gives him a blank canvas that begs to paint an image worth immortalizing until the end of Draco’s days. “I thought…”

“Had you listened to him, you would have known.”

“Don’t you dare accuse me of not listening to my son,” Draco warns, but then sinks back into the balls of his feet. “It’s _because_ I listened that I assumed that he, well, that he…” he goes quiet, feeling himself go pale, and then pink.

Harry’s smile is almost sad, but gentle. “Maybe, once upon a time, there was a bit of puppy love, if you want to call it that. Things changed. They’re kids, for fucks sake. You can’t expect them to settle for someone when they’re _eleven_. That’s a little unrealistic.”

The slow creep of relief is unwelcome. Draco fights it with vicious effort, unwilling to accept any sort of temporary expectations. “They’re inseparable.”

“They’re friends,” Harry says, offended. “Ron, Hermione, and I keep constant contact with each other. Hell, I’ve woken up to the two of them crashed in my bedroom floor more times than I can count.”

The picture of the Minister for Magic rendered in a drunken stupor on Harry Potter’s floor is too outrageous to even imagine.

“My godfather once told me that love isn’t bound by societal norms,” he continues, speaking fervently. He breathes deep, chest out, and eyes fierce. “I didn’t get what he meant by that, but I think I do now. What I feel for Ginny isn’t the same as what I feel for Albus, or Ron, or ‘Mione, or Teddy, hell, even for you and Scorpius. And I’m pretty sure that what Al and him feel for each other is just as valid as anything else. Even then, if it’s a specific kind of love, you’re allowed to love more than one person. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Snow gathers over Harry’s shoulders, drags down the taller of his unruly curls. He looks every inch a warrior standing in his garden, proclaiming words of righteousness with certainty born from someone who firmly believes.

Draco envies him his strength and his confidence.

“You just said you loved me,” is all he can say, all he can think of.

To his credit, Harry doesn’t even flinch. “I think I do,” he says, his honesty appreciated. “I think I may be in love with you, but I’m not quite sure yet. There’s a lot to sift through. A lot of things I have to weigh when it comes to you.”

The weakness in Draco’s knees is unbearable as nods his head, firmly. The knot in his stomach eases in a mild rush of relief. There is a concrete concept of reality in uncertainty, one that assures him that the man in front of him isn’t being a foolhardy buffoon governed by lust or some other misplaced feeling.

Draco wants to argue that the only people twisted enough to love him are his parents, but then thoughts of Scorpius’ charming smile quell the torment within. Even Astoria’s fleeting touches to his arm assured him she loved him in her own way.

But Harry Potter is a completely different monster.

“Don’t trust a noble Gryffindor's word,” Harry says, trying to lighten the mood. “Trust his actions.”

“And what actions would those be?”

“Whichever ones you want, Draco. However long you want them to take.”

The casual use of his given name grants him unimaginable pleasure. “What if you become disinterested?”

“That remains to be seen.” Harry bites his bottom lip, nods his reassurance. “As it would be if you were to lose interest in me, too.”

“Mutual understanding.”

“You just confirmed your interest.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Potter.” But the remark is barely meant.

With the confirmation of obstacles removed, Draco is faced with a very real possibility. The desperateness with which he clung to his excuses have left him bleeding and bare, unsure of how to proceed, but with the ability to proceed nonetheless.

For the first time in a very long time, Draco feels well and truly free. Free to make a choice, to choose his own words and pave his own path.

“Draco?”

He blinks up, cold forgotten. “I don’t know what to say.”

Harry, looking devastatingly smug, smiles. “Better than winning a match, feels like.”

“Gloating is not a good look on you, old man,” Draco says, considering the idea of plopping down on the snow. Fortunately, Harry steps forward again and wraps his arms around his waist in a loose hold that makes it just a tad difficult to breathe.

“Look up, in case you didn’t believe me.”

Above their heads, twirling innocuously, is a mistletoe. A green and silver ribbon holds it together, spilling more of the twinkling lights down on them.

“I’m sure that’s a Weasley product by the way,” Harry says, but is made silent when Draco presses a fleeting kiss onto the corner of his mouth. The point of contact is dry and bristly with the beginnings of a beard. “Still feels like the first time.”

“Kissing?” Draco asks him, their mingled breaths creating clouds between them. It’s blissfully warm when they stand this close, sheltered in the white of snow, untouchable by the world around them.

Harry nods, moving his hands to rest on either side of Draco’s neck. He uses his thumbs to caress his jawline, eliciting delighted shivers with each stroke. “I like it a lot.”

Draco, in turn, lazily drapes his arms around Harry’s hips.

“Kissing me is an honor,” he says, and cuts off all potential retorts by firmly pressing their mouths together once more.

Stroking fingers begin to roam, down a shoulder and down his back, pulling Draco closer to him. 

The kiss is slow, chaste, because despite the privacy of his gardens, they’re out in the open with apparently three rather than two children running about.

“Don’t think this excuses you from leading me on for however many months,” Draco says once he comes up for air, peppering soft kisses on Harry’s lips. “Allowing me to suffer when you knew the truth all along is appalling.”

Harry’s chuckle is more a rumble that reverberates through him. “In my defence it was purely on accident that I found out. They made me swear not to tell out of fear of backlash.”

“Wanted to butter me up, eh?”

“Your kid is frighteningly cunning, and mine likes you more than I hoped he ever would.”

“It’s because I’m devastatingly charismatic and give very good life advice.”

“I’ll make sure he never asks you for some.”

Harry flicks his tongue against Draco’s bottom lip, lighting desire so fierce it takes a colossal amount of effort not to push him down into the snow and take him.

Draco groans, and Harry answers with a husky laugh.

“We should stop,” Harry says, but his hands say otherwise. “They’re watching us.”

Reluctantly stepping back Draco casts an uneasy look around him. He spots nothing, but with the Invisibility Cloak at their disposal, they could be anywhere.

“Right.” Draco adjusts his coat, blaming the burn of his cheeks on the snow. “There’s a fire inside with my name on it and I’d like to thaw out before dinner.”

“Oh, yes, definitely.” Running his fingers through his hair to clear the snow from it, Harry leers at Draco. The effect is ruined when he devolves into tiny aborted laughs similar to giggles, thought he would never call it such. Draco finds it to be ruthlessly endearing. “How long until dinner?”

With a burst of rashness that can’t be curbed by years of deeply ingrained decorum, Draco winks. “Long enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are encouraged, comments are welcome, and feel free to come bug me on [tumblr](http://astramaxima.tumblr.com/).


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